


When the Songbird Stopped Singing

by Nherizu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nherizu/pseuds/Nherizu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after the war, Draco Malfoy wakes up with a new understanding, and Harry Potter needs firmer ground to walk on. Unfortunately, life is never easy, especially with the burdens of N.E.W.T.s looming closer. As Draco struggles to maintain his sanity, Harry is back to his old routine—stalking Draco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Songbird Stopped Singing

**Author's Note:**

> Author LJ Name: nherizu  
> Prompter: mewthmeow  
> Prompt Number: 24  
> Title: When the Songbird Stopped Singing  
> Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, Draco/Astoria, past Draco/Pansy, Harry/Ginny, Hermione/Ron, a very brief mention of Patil twins/Theodore.  
> Summary: Shortly after the war, Draco Malfoy wakes up with a new understanding, and Harry Potter needs firmer ground to walk on. Unfortunately, life is never easy, especially with the burdens of N.E.W.T.s looming closer. As Draco struggles to maintain his sanity, Harry is back to his old routine—stalking Draco.  
> Rating: R  
> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.  
> Warning(s): Language, emotional and behavioural issues, eating disorder, angst (but with lots of fluff, too), mild violence, a brief mention of (very) minor character death(s).  
> Epilogue compliant? EWE.  
> Word Count: 37.500  
> Author's Notes: I tried to include all the requests, though it turned out to be a bit longer than I expected. The result is this somewhat ‘Growing Up/Moving Forward’ fic. I wanted to show Draco’s recovery and character development little by little in this story, and I hope I was able to pull it off.  
> Thank you so much to Mrs Daisy and Ms Tya for sharing their experiences in dealing with Alexithymia and Emotional/Behavioural Disability, to my dear beta readers peonie, annalisemarie99, dannyfranx and saras_girl for helping me to make this piece better, to my lovely friend finitefarfalla for giving me advice. Last but not least, thank you to all the Mods for their patience, and to Mystery Prompter for such a brilliant prompt. I really enjoyed writing this fic. :D

Shortly after the war, Draco Malfoy realised he had nothing left to lose.

He had grieved day and night, hiding and shaking violently under his blankets. He had shut himself from hearing the cheers for freedom, and more importantly, he hadn’t wanted to hear the sad melody of funeral marches. The angry shouts, curses and death threats outside, however, he could imagine just fine.

When he couldn’t cry, he had tried to sleep or just be completely awake, but to no avail. Staying in that hazy place between sleep and the real world, he had seen his own self watching in dread as Nagini feasted on dead bodies, and felt the weight of his wand in his fingers as the echoes of his own voice casting Unforgivables vibrated in his head.

Later, he had left his bed, for he could no longer differentiate when he was awake, and when he wasn’t.

He had walked, sometimes, across the garden and watched the drying flowers. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the desperate voice of his mother in the parlour, talking to some distant relatives they hadn’t even cared about before the war. _Anything that can help us to keep on living, Draco_ , his mother had said. The first time he saw his mother trying so hard to ask for help, a few days after the Wizengamot seized all of their Gringotts accounts and family estates, Draco had felt something ugly stirring in his stomach. There had been bile in his throat, and he had frantically blinked the tears away.

It was beyond humiliating. They were Malfoys. They shouldn’t have been begging. They should have been throwing Galleons here and there, mocking Weasleys with half an eye—not struggling to live. But here they were, digging in the mud.

Draco couldn’t see his mother anymore.

His father hadn’t wanted to speak to him. He would go early, even before dawn, and come home after midnight. Draco hadn’t said anything—not when he saw the dark circles under his father’s eyes, not when he heard the coughs that sounded too weak for a man named Lucius Malfoy. Draco hadn’t wanted to care, had tried not to care. He had chosen to resume his walk, noticing spider webs glittering faintly in the dim hallways.

Draco had missed the greetings of his ancestors’ portraits and the glowing artefacts that complemented the Manor’s elegance. He had hated these plain white walls, hated the silence more. But if he shut his eyes, he could still hear the agonizing screams echoing in the corridors, or the sneers of the public gallery at his family’s trial. Worse, the look in Potter’s eyes when he caught Draco’s hand in the Room of Requirement.

Draco had fallen. He couldn’t, even if he was shoved, fall any deeper.

Then one morning, three days before he received a letter from Hogwarts, he woke up with a new understanding. Draco Malfoy couldn’t lose anything else.

He felt different.

* * *

The Sorting Feast never seemed shorter than now. Parents were reluctant, Draco guessed, to let their children go to Hogwarts. The school reeked of war, of death. As if mourning, no longer did the ceiling picture the sky and the weather. It was bland, brown and boring—the usual ceiling one might see anywhere.

In the Manor, Draco didn’t notice how the time flew, how many months he had spent locked inside. But now he knew the term had been delayed for two months, or six months after the war, caught in various reconstructions of the castle. Of course, the lack of teachers available and the need to adjust the curriculum were also there. Professor McGonagall had explained that the students who wished to attend extra classes were to sign their names after the Feast, and there would be Optional Classes during the Christmas holiday. Draco stared at the High Table, already deciding not to go back to the Manor. He figured most of the seventh and eighth years knew the classes weren’t really optional, anyway.

“—you think, Malfoy?”

Draco blinked, put his fork on his plate and met Zabini’s eyes. “What about me?”

“Quidditch,” Zabini said, his nose wrinkled. “Look at the Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, _Hufflepuffs_. They outnumber us.”

Swiftly, Draco looked around. Indeed, more than a half of the other houses’ former members were there. Only Slytherin, courtesy of the war, had less than a quarter of its students came back to Hogwarts. Draco shook his head. “Do we even get to play at all this year?”

“That’d be a pity if we didn’t,” Pansy said beside him. “I miss seeing you fly.” She looked at him with a small, teasing smile. Draco stared back, silent, until Pansy’s smile turned into a flat line. “Draco?”

“Ah.” Draco lowered his gaze to his plate, fiddling with the golden spoon. For a moment there, he was blank. Was that a compliment? Was that sarcasm? Draco chewed the inside of his cheek, beginning to feel a thread of fog prodding the corner of his mind. “Thanks,” he said at last.

Pansy raised her eyebrows in a weird expression, but said nothing. Draco wondered if it wasn’t the correct answer.

“Not eating anymore?” Goyle poked at Draco’s plate, eyeing the remaining roast beef—almost untouched. As Draco shook his head slightly, pushing the plate away, Goyle frowned. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Sighing, Draco folded his napkin. He stood up, brushing his robes for a while before noticing that Goyle still hadn’t taken Draco’s plate. Draco shot an eyebrow up, then shrugged. Goyle was perfectly entitled to be weird.

Draco was no longer a Prefect—not after he abandoned his job in his sixth year—but with the few remaining eighth year and almost no seventh year students in Slytherin, Draco knew it was only a matter of time until he was asked again. Maybe Zabini was right. Slytherin was doomed. The war was over, but Slytherin was still living in one. At least, that’s what it looked like in the eyes of the other houses’ students.

“First years, follow me,” he said.

Pansy stood up beside him, falling into the old routine of their days as Prefects together. Shortly after, the other houses began to follow. Some of the old Prefects took their roles again, and for the houses that had lost their Prefects in the war, the eighth years took over the job. Draco gave a quick glance around, squared his shoulders, and led the way out of the Great Hall.

The first years, despite the awkwardness of the situation after the war, still managed to be excited and were chattering rather loudly, shoulders bumping and forming a messy line as they walked. It was supposedly, Draco mused, a new start for all of them. But the look he saw the other houses’ students give Slytherin’s first years was not welcoming to say the least.

Draco could understand ill will towards him and the other eighth years, for they were the ones who had actively taken part in the war. But somehow, people thought they were not worth the attention anymore—the trials had tarnished their names, and without the Dark Lord, they hardly mattered to anyone. So Draco couldn’t understand why the naïve and for the most part uninvolved first years were attracting such hostility.

Maybe they were afraid of a new Dark Lord. Maybe they thought one of the new Slytherins would grow up to be one. The thought made Draco want to laugh in their faces, if only he could really find thoughts about Dark Lords humorous.

Draco bit back a sigh, keeping his chin high as he walked in the new direction of the dungeons. Strange as it was, they were now on the opposite side of the old ones. The corridors were bright with yellowish flames from flying candles near the ceilings, but still chilly. Whoever had the idea to use these candles not only in the Great Hall, had successfully taken away the image of the school Draco once knew. Well, Hogwarts was different. Hogwarts had died once. Draco tried to mull over it, if this fact would make him miss the place he had lived in for years, and decided it actually didn’t.

And then it happened. Draco felt something—someone bump into his back, hard enough that he lost a fair amount of air from his lungs. He jerked his head to the side, catching himself before he stumbled, and narrowing his eyes as the sight of a mop of black hair greeted him over his shoulder.

“Er,” said the culprit eloquently. The line of Slytherin first years broke behind him, and Draco could see some of them gaping. “Sorry.”

Draco racked his brain. It was Harry Potter who stood there, looking flushed and disoriented and like he just met someone he shouldn’t. But of course Draco was someone Potter shouldn’t meet. And now Draco knew he should react, should say something, should _feel_ something, because it was _Potter_. For the second time tonight, however, he was blank. Potter had started to quirk his eyebrows, his glasses reflecting Draco’s vacant expression, the images moving slightly with the swaying candle flames.

“You don’t have to act as if I’m not here, Malfoy,” Potter said, his voice sounding as if he was disgusted. At that moment, Draco realised he had taken too long to think.

“Potter,” said Draco, hoping the way he enunciated the syllables was enough to convince Potter—and everyone else, because Pansy and Zabini were sending him questioning glances—that he was irked. “Getting lost, aren’t we?”

Potter flushed again at this, and seemed to be focusing himself in the art of gritting his teeth. “The tower should be that way.”

“And yet it is not,” Draco said in what he hoped a lazy tone. “But I should say I’m not surprised your brain couldn’t follow the briefing for the eighth years on the train.”

“I was just—” Potter hesitated. “—distracted.”

“Fascinating revelation.” Draco made an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “And I should care because?”

Narrowing his eyes, Potter shook his head. “Whatever Malfoy. You’re not worth it.”

“That I already know, thank you,” said Draco, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down his nose at Potter. Potter seemed startled at Draco’s answer, and looked like he had just kicked a puppy. Draco wanted to shake his head. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Potter, some of us have duties to attend to.” Turning around, Draco gestured with a flick of his wrist for the first years to follow him without bothering to glance at them.

The whispers of students behind him grew louder as they walked farther towards the dungeons. Pansy had somehow managed to stick by his shoulder as she strolled, and laughed as she talked about how miserable Potter looked, with the bags under his eyes. Draco pursed his lips, trying to work out if he would have bothered making fun of Potter’s visible tiredness a year ago, and wondering how it would have made him feel.

When he murmured the password to the Slytherin common room, however, he put that thought aside for he was sure there were other things he ought to think about.

* * *

He just needed to act according to his own past behaviour—something familiar and easy for him to do. Supposedly. But repeatedly having his mind blank was not something easy and familiar to Draco. Never before did he have to pause and find out what he felt or what he had to say, whenever unexpected things happened. It should be something people could do naturally, reactions that came along automatically without having to try remembering how their _past_ selves would react to everything.

Draco supposed if one had good insight, reactions would come out more planned, or at least they wouldn’t be something that slipped out impulsively. Well thought out reactions in order to gain benefits were completely a Slytherin thing. But staring like an idiot for a long time when someone had just spilled a glass of pumpkin juice onto your robes, or when someone mocked you in the corridor for being a cowardly ex-Death Eater, were not things Draco could consider to be _Slytherin_.

The lack of constraint on his behaviour was certainly freeing, but wouldn’t do him any good if it took him too long to work out the correct thing to say or do.  He could no longer rely on his feelings to prompt him to the right reaction.  However, he still possessed logic, so all he needed to do was to stay in character. He would act like people expected him to—sneer when needed, intimidate when threatened. Unfortunately, sometimes those weren’t enough.

The weird glances from his housemates, or even from the bullies, sometimes told him that he had reacted wrongly. Perhaps he should be angry when he laughed. Perhaps he should be laughing when he frowned. Or perhaps he should be scared now that he was having this trouble at all.

Draco still couldn’t be arsed to worry, though. Extra classes for the eighth years meant they had to study from eight in the morning until eight at night. Twelve bloody hours with only lunch and dinner breaks, and self-study sessions in the library on Saturdays and Sundays. On top of that, being an eighth year meant having access to the library until midnight—something Draco was sure only applied this year as a compensation for the delay of the term—but it was enough to keep students too busy to question Draco’s behaviour. The burdens of N.E.W.T.s haunted them all even in sleep.

At least everything had been within Draco’s control. Until now.

Draco didn’t know what Potter was doing in N.E.W.T. Potions. He certainly wasn’t qualified for it. It was surprising enough that Potter could attend Advanced Potions in sixth year—Draco still believed Potter was cheating—and he skipped the seventh year doing heroic things. There was no way he could improve his skills miraculously. But Slughorn didn’t seem to mind, and Draco finally reasoned that it was only because the number of qualified seventh and eighth years was so pathetically little that Slughorn had to accept Potter again.

But it didn’t explain why Draco had been paired with him.

Potter was a disaster. After three times of failing to _follow_ the instructions resulting in near explosions, only averted because Draco slapped Potter’s hand away in the nick of time, Draco finally threw his hands up in mock-surrender. “You’re beyond hopeless.”

“The instruction is confusing,” Potter said with a scowl. Draco shook his head helplessly.

“It’s systematic.”

“It’s too long,” Potter said defensively. “And vague.”

“No, it’s not. It’s _N.E.W.T._ level, Potter.” Draco narrowed his eyes. “What would you expect? Some kind of first year’s Forgetfulness Potion? The only similar thing is the valerian.” Potter was silent, a frown shadowing his expression. “Merlin, maybe you _drank_ Forgetfulness Potion. Are you sure you’re qualified for this class?”

Potter’s expression was the very picture of disapproval. “I was just a bit distracted. No need to exaggerate things.”

Draco clucked his tongue. “Distracted.”

Massaging the bridge of his nose, Potter sighed. “Look, it’s not like . . . I had the time to learn anything last year.”

“Clearly you weren’t the only one who couldn’t learn anything last year,” Draco said. Potter’s eyes widened a fraction. “Although it might not occur at all to you because you think everything is about you. Completely acceptable, being the Saviour and all.” Draco shrugged.

“Malfoy.” Potter looked pinched, lost in whatever thoughts he was having. “Why are you always so . . . .” Shaking his head, he stared at the cauldron. He stirred five times counter clock-wise, then paused. “Forget it. I didn’t mean it that way—I didn’t . . . I don’t care what you think about me.”

“Believe me, I don’t _want_ to care about you, but I care about the potion.” Smacking Potter’s hand out of the way again, Draco gave his best glare for good measure. “Stop ruining it.”

Seemingly struggling to overcome the desire to hex Draco, Potter took a deep breath and clenched his fist on the desk. “Fine,” he said after a while. “Do it yourself.” He took a quill and began to write something on his parchment.

“With pleasure,” said Draco.

The next twenty minutes went by in silence. When Draco finished stirring the cauldron and picked up his quill to write down the process while waiting for the liquid to change its colour to transparent—and if it wasn’t within the next ten minutes, then it must have been Potter’s fault—Draco couldn’t help but notice Potter’s gaze on him. He arched an eyebrow as Potter not so subtly avoided Draco’s returning stare.

“Problem, Potter?”

Potter worried his lower lip between his teeth, still not wanting to face Draco. The twitches in his hands proved Draco’s suspicion that Potter was trying hard to look calm—and spectacularly failing. After sneaking a glance out of the corner of his eye, Potter finally blew his messy fringe away from his forehead, and turned to face Draco.

“Malfoy,” he said.

“That’s my name,” Draco said. “Has the Forgetfulness Potion lost its effect on you?”

Potter sighed heavily, and Draco thought he saw a slight shudder as Potter did so. “Look, please just let me.” Draco waited. Potter combed a stray lock out of his eyes, slowly holding Draco’s gaze.  “I’ve been . . . you know, I noticed that you’ve been . . .”

The rest of his words never came. A loud bang vibrated from right behind Draco, and he could sense the pressure of a hot wave practically sending him tumbling onto the desk. Blue smoke blinded his eyes, causing tears to well up in them. Then he realised what had happened. Whoever sat behind him had just blown up their cauldron. His next thought was whether it was safe to breathe in the smoke and what side-effects it might cause. Before he could finish listing all the ingredients, though, someone yanked him to the side, dragging him over chairs and desks so that he swore his stomach would have bruises.

“Bloody hell! Could you be stupider?” Potter’s shout pulled him back from the daze. Potter’s eyes flashed, his eyebrows quirked and jaw clenched, his fingers digging into Draco’s arms. “Why didn’t you avoid the _smoke_?”

Blinking slowly, Draco’s vision cleared as he was finally aware that Slughorn and some other students were spelling the smoke away. He turned his head around, drinking in the chaos as everyone fussed near the entrance, the door wide open. Only Draco and Potter were left right in the middle of the room, kneeling. He felt Potter shaking his arms again.

“Malfoy.”

Draco shut his eyes, resisting the urge to massage his temples. He had just failed to react correctly—again.

“It’s not poisonous, it won’t have any effects until it’s properly brewed, that’s why I—”

“Oh, really? But every sensible person would jump away from any explosion, and I thought you’d always be the first to do that,” Potter snapped. Draco swallowed at the implication.

“So you think you know me so well now?” He shoved Potter’s hands from his arms, his mind racing to name the rising knot in his stomach. “That’s what every hero does, isn’t it? Thinking they know about every bloody thing and have to save every bloody person even if it’s not needed?”

“No, but yes, I always have to save you, don’t I? Because you clearly _can’t_ take care of yourself very well.”

The knot was bubbling higher up to Draco’s chest. He stood up so fast that he almost felt the earth wobble beneath him. “If you think I appreciate your concern, then you’re mental, Potter,” said Draco, his voice a low hiss.

Potter’s eyes jerked wide, his lips flattened tightly as he rose to his feet. For a moment Potter looked lost for words, opening his mouth only to close it again, then he shook his head. “I _know_ , Malfoy,” he said. “I know. I told you that I’ve noticed—”

“Mr Malfoy, you should go to the hospital wing,” Slughorn tapped Draco’s shoulder from behind, the grip of his fingers harder than necessary. “It’s better to be cautious. Off you go with Mr Weasley and Ms Bulstrode.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, noting Weasel’s eyes as huge as saucers and the loud gulp as he swallowed.

“Sorry, mate, you okay?” Weasel lifted his right hand awkwardly at Potter, showing a splatter of blue on his robe. Potter offered him a dry smile, as Weasel eyed Draco warily. Bulstrode sniffed next to Weasel, busy with her attempt to Vanish the blue blotches on her nails.

Draco sensed the knot inside him threatening to choke him.

“Mr Malfoy?”

Ignoring Slughorn’s call, Draco fled from the classroom, rushing past several students by the door and almost bumping into two girls Draco vaguely remembered as second year Slytherins in the corridor. But he didn’t care. His throat was dry, bitter, and his breath came out with wheezing sounds. He made the last few steps to the bathroom with a run, slammed the door open and quickly rushed inside a cubicle, bending down and gripping the toilet bowl—not minding to lift the seat. He hacked and coughed, emptying his stomach of the little breakfast he had. Something squeezed, clawing and gnawing at his inside.

Then panic rose.

He gripped the toilet bowl tighter, fingers hurting and nails scraping against the white ceramic. He continued retching, although nothing remained but saliva. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. The world tilted, urging another string of coughs from him. All he heard were the buzzing sounds in his ears, getting louder by the seconds.

 _This won’t do_ , Draco sobbed desperately. Squeezing his eyes shut, he struggled to take a tentative breath. Slowly, little by little, as his mind started to chant the mantra.

_I can’t fall, can’t go any lower, I just can’t—no more—_

Draco gasped. A rush of air finally burst into his lungs, burning. He stayed still, eyes wide, the sound of his breathing whistling like a broken cadence. But at least he could see now—could breathe. His body trembled, and he had to remind himself to unclasp his fingers from around the bowl. He slumped against the cubicle wall, counting his breathing, waiting until the shaking subsided. Once again, his mind cleared up.

Draco slowly stood up, supporting himself on the thin cubicle wall. As he regained his balance again, he flushed the toilet and headed to the sink, rinsing his mouth and wetting his face. For a moment he stared into the mirror. His expression was blank, as though he hadn’t just emptied his stomach.  But his fingertips were still pale, lacking blood from gripping the bowl too tight. He examined the colour slowly returning, then looked up when he recognised a familiar image in the mirror. He smirked.

“Déjà vu, Potter?”

Potter didn’t look amused. He stood unmoving by the door, frowning.

“Why, isn’t it about time for you to slice me open?” Draco said again, holding Potter’s gaze through the mirror. “Or are you waiting until I cast _Cru_ —”

“Let’s go to the hospital wing, Malfoy.”

Draco only stared.

“Maybe Slughorn was right. I mean, you just vomited.”

“I did,” Draco drawled. He turned around and tilted his head to the side to meet Potter’s eyes directly. “But what is it to you?”

Potter’s hands clenched and opened. “Nothing. I just . . .”

“Looking for a new damsel in distress, are you? Saving the whole Wizarding population from the Dark Lord isn’t enough for you.” Draco laughed, shaking his head. “Really, Potter, there should be a limit to your Hero Complex.”

“Malfoy.” Unexpectedly, Potter’s voice was soft, his eyes searching. “I’m not here to fight. Why are you being difficult?”

The question was not what Draco would have expected coming from Potter. After all, what did one want from one’s enemy? Certainly not a pat on the shoulder or a friendly smile.

Sniffing, Draco looked away, his arms crossed before his chest. “I must,” he said after a while.

“Must,” Potter said, sounding like he was tasting how the word felt on his tongue while mulling over the meaning. “Why _must_?”

Draco shook his head harder, striving to convey exasperation, hoping Potter would discern that he didn’t want to talk about it—about _anything_ —with Potter of all people. “Because it was what I did before the war, before all of this, all right?”

Clearly Potter was not one to take subtle hints—of course, Draco should have known. His answer only urged Potter to step nearer, cocking his head slowly as his forehead wrinkled in an effort to understand whatever Draco was trying to say. “That’s . . . .” Potter squinted. “That’s weird. Why would you try to be like you were _before all of this_?”

“Because I don’t know how else I should act!” Draco snapped. Potter winced slightly, but not enough to make him give up. “Look, I don’t know what kind of heroic things you’re planning to do.” Draco sighed, massaging his temples. “But I don’t need your help. Can you just—try to get it through your thick skull?”

Potter merely frowned, not taking his eyes off Draco’s as he stayed still. This whole thing was just weird. It didn’t matter that Draco couldn’t feel anything—couldn’t even remember how to feel _towards_ things, but what Potter was doing now was even weirder. What had made him suddenly care now, when he had acted as though Draco wasn’t in Hogwarts these past weeks? Granted, Draco couldn’t be sure of that, since he had been too preoccupied with himself to notice what Potter was doing, but—

“Try to be angry with me then,” Potter said.

Draco fell into silence. Resisting the temptation to just stop breathing altogether, he sensed the beginning of trouble. Potter was . . . surely Potter wouldn’t know?

“Very well, you just proved yourself to be a lunatic. I’m angry at you all the time, I wonder how thick your skin is to be that ignorant,” Draco said, deciding it was best to dismiss it nonchalantly—or at least look nonchalant. “That’s enough, I have no time to satisfy your fantasy.” Pushing himself from the sink, he strode quickly towards the door, attempting to get away from Potter as soon as possible. Potter, however, wouldn’t let him.

“You forget that I’ve known you for years.” Potter’s hand was gripping Draco’s arm tightly. “Whether you like it or not, I know you better than you think.”

Shoving Potter’s hand off his arm, Draco spun around and all but hissed, “The way you said it, it was as if you were confessing your love, Potter.” Eyes widening, Potter’s mouth hung open in surprise. Draco smirked. “Too bad I have no interest in becoming a queer.”

Potter was still gobsmacked, and before he had a chance to retaliate, Draco took the opportunity to leave, taking long strides and circling the corner. Once he was halfway to his Study of Ancient Runes lesson, though, he remembered that once Harry Potter was interested in something, even one Dark Lord hadn’t been able to stop him.

And Draco had no time for Potter.

* * *

Draco skipped Potions. He rarely came to Charms, and when he came, he sat at the back, nearest to the door. He arrived seconds before Flitwick came in, and rushed outside the moment Flitwick was done teaching. He never allowed himself to meet Potter’s eyes. His schedules were a mess—he poured all of his focus into Arithmancy and Study of Ancient Runes, and considered changing his Potions N.E.W.T. to Divination or anything Potter didn’t choose just so he didn’t have to face Potter again.

He just couldn’t have anyone knowing about _this_ —he had to make sure—let alone Potter.

Escaping Potions was a bit tricky, though. He got two letters from Slughorn, and still he couldn’t bring himself to care. Detention, or worse, Slughorn might tell McGonagall about Draco’s repeated absence soon. But again, whatever happened he couldn’t feel a thing anyway. Why should he care?

There was a new routine he found himself doing for the last four days. Hogwarts castle had changed, and Draco, with his mind blank, let his feet lead him to whatever passages and corridors Hogwarts would open up for him to go through. He followed the stairs, the turns, until he arrived in deserted areas. Each day he came to different places, and each day he spent his time waiting for Potions to finish by sitting and staring at emptiness. On the fifth day, he found himself in a tower—empty, dreary, desolate like the other places he had discovered the days before. He strode near the balustrade, leaning his side against the battlement and gazing downward. Then for the first time he realised—he knew this place.

Hogwarts had changed, this place had changed, but this was still the Astronomy Tower.

Something moved at the corner of his vision, as another understanding hit him. Someone else was there. He turned around, still leaning lightly against the battlement as he greeted the girl in Slytherin robes sitting in the corner, staring at him with an unreadable expression.

“Shouldn’t you be—”

“I have a free period before my next lesson,” she said, her eyes already back on the white papers she was fumbling with her fingers. Draco waited for a question, waited for her to ask what he was doing here, if he was plotting for revenge, or being a silly, pitiful ex-Death Eater like others often told him, but nothing came.

“All right.”

She raised her eyebrows, her long dark hair, sharp cheekbones and tiny, delicate nose reminding him of—someone. “All right,” she said absently.

Draco shrugged, not sure what else he could say. It seemed the girl was not one to talk much, and for that he was grateful. As such, he turned back to the balustrade, seeing nothing of the deep blue sky or green of the forbidden forest far below. Before, he never thought he would like silence, but lately silence was all he got. It might be his best friend now, as pathetic as it sounded. But this silence was not bad either, stretching between them with only occasional _rustle, rustle, rustle,_ from the papers.

He didn’t know how long he had been standing there, listening to the hypnotic monotonous sound, when she approached the balustrade. Her fingers were pale and long and neat—neat because they didn’t have an ugly manicure like Pansy’s—as they cupped paper birds. Then one by one, she blew life into the birds, sending them flying across the sky, high, high, far away.

“What’re you doing?” Draco asked because he couldn’t help it.

She didn’t return his stare, only keeping her eyes on the traces of paper birds, despite it being impossible to see them now. “Making amends.”

“What for?”

“For being ignorant in the war.”

“You’re making amends to the war heroes?”

This time she looked at him, her lips quirked slightly at the corner. “No, only to people I loved.”

“Then—”

“I don’t care about the war heroes and victims.”

Draco pursed his lips. “You do realise that if someone heard it, they’d think you’re being ungrateful, heartless, and a ton more nasty things for not caring about them? And you said you’re making amends for being _ignorant_.”

“Well,” she said, “you heard it.”

Draco shrugged. “Someone other than me.”

She shook her head slightly, looking amused. “Why is it wrong to only care about the ones that meant something to me?”

“No,” Draco said, eyes searching the sky and noticing the sun was covered by thick clouds now. “No, it’s not wrong. It’s weird to feel sad for those we didn’t know, anyway.” Only Draco did know those people who died. And one real hero who couldn’t die.

She didn’t say anything for a long time, long enough for Draco to forget her being there. When she spoke up, it had started to drizzle. “That’s why I’m grieving for those who don’t have anyone to grieve for them.”

The moment she left, Draco scrunched his eyebrows together, squinting through the drizzling water and futilely searching for any paper birds. He couldn’t find any, but he did find someone. No matter how far he was flying, Draco would still recognise that manoeuvre.

This time, he allowed himself to think about Potter.

* * *

“You didn’t come to lessons.”

Draco reluctantly raised his eyes, thinking of how stupid he was for not keeping track of time. Of course Potter would search for him the moment lessons were over. The library was not an ideal place to hide, that much Draco should have known.

“Why didn’t you?” Potter continued, licking his lower lip and looking like the very picture of nervousness.

“Why do you think?”

“Avoiding me?”

“There you have it.”

Potter’s eyes dulled for a split second, and Draco wondered if he was just imagining things. Licking his lips again, Potter nodded a few times, only slight movements of his head. “The Potions homework—I can’t do it alone.”

“Which is why you went flying yesterday?”

“And today.”

“All right. That’s sad.”

“What is?”

Observing every little movement Potter made, every twitch of muscles on his face, Draco dragged his answer out a little longer. “You can’t survive the lesson alone. That’s sad.”

Potter eyed the ceiling, sniffing, and Draco could feel the air of restlessness swirling around him. When the silence went on too long, Draco huffed, closing his book with a loud _snap_ , which jerked Potter back towards him.

“Malfoy,” he said, “Um—”

“For Merlin’s sake, what do you want, Potter?” Draco narrowed his eyes, his fist clenching and unclenching on top of the book. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

There was hesitation before Potter said, “I asked Hermione—”

“Oh, bloody hell.” Draco threw his hands up, sensing the edge of nausea teasing in the pit of his stomach. Again. “Of course. Of course you’d tell her.”

“I didn’t mention you by name, but—I had to ask, all right? It’s not healthy—”

“Figured. Because no one sane would become a Death Eater, isn’t—”

“No, but you need to try—”

“No, I don’t need—”

“Honestly, you can’t let it—”

“Of course I can, it’s about me—”

“Malfoy, it’s dangerous—”

“No, Potter, It’s none of _your_ business!”

Potter sniffed again, his lower lip trapped in between his teeth. He said nothing for a long time, letting the dull silence stretch uncomfortably. When he didn’t show any sign of going away, Draco resigned himself to facing Potter, or else he never get any peace.

“Why do you care?” he asked, levelling his gaze right at Potter’s.

Potter remained silent for a little more while. “I have—” Clearing his throat as his voice cracked a little, he shook his head. “I have my reasons.”

“You have your reasons,” Draco repeated. “You have your reasons to annoy the hell out of me, you mean?”

“No, not that,” Potter shook his head harder, then paused. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you annoyed?”

Draco nudged the inside of his cheek with his tongue, not for the first time noting that Potter was horrible at resisting the urge to fidget. “I have every reason to be.”

“But _are_ you?” Potter stepped closer, and Draco shifted, leaning his weight on his elbow on the table. “Now?”

“No, I suppose not,” Draco said. “And you know why.”

Nodding, Potter eyed Draco with curiosity. Or was it worry? “Can you—feel happy? Scared? Sad?”

Draco shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t want to. I don’t remember how to.”

“Malfoy—”

“Stop it.” Draco held his hand up, stopping whatever Potter was going to say with that kind of expression. “You’ve got it wrong. I want this, Potter. I _want_ this peace.”

“How can you call it _peace_?” Potter’s voice raised one pitch higher. “It’s wrong, you can’t live without emotions, you just—”

“Oh, now you’re talking about right and wrong, is that all your brain can—”

“—can’t live like a bloody doll and not—”

“—think of? You Gryffindors can never see anything without drawing lines—”

“—feeling anything, it’s not _safe_ , you shouldn’t not have fear, you shouldn’t not be happy—”

“—between right and wrong, and how can you decide which is wrong and which is right—”

“—shouldn’t not have anger and everything that shaped you—”

“—the world is not how you see it, don’t force your self-righteous view on everyone—”

“—don’t you understand that I can’t even say that I _know_ you anymore!”

By the time they stopped talking, now on their feet with Potter panting and shaking, several students had gathered near them, whispering not so discreetly in the background. Of course at some point Potter had begun shouting at him, drowning Draco’s attempt to reply only in hisses. And of course Madam Pince would be at the ready to throw them out. Brilliant.

Scrunching his nose, Draco swept his parchments, quill and ink into his bag, leaving before any word could escape from Madam Pince’s lips that were quivering from anger. He could hear Potter calling him, but who did Potter think he was? Emotionless though Draco was, he still had a fully functioning mind, and giving up to Potter was never considered a good move—let alone in the presence of other people.

Wherever did he get the impression he could talk to Potter?

Running his palm over his face as he strode along the corridor, Draco fought the urge to vomit.

* * *

“Draco, Draco, _Draco_!” Pansy’s voice was a shriek at the end. “Don’t you dare think about skipping again! Draco, stop!”

Draco didn’t stop. He walked past the gaping lower year students, leaving his breakfast nearly untouched. He could hear Pansy struggle to stand as fast, trying to catch him, but finally resigned herself to shout at Zabini and Nott instead. “Honestly, can’t you both do anything useful? Stop him!” The exasperated mutters from both blokes told Draco that they preferred to listen to Pansy’s nagging rather than facing Draco’s emotional wrath. Sometimes he was thankful to his past self. Being a borderline unbalanced emotional wreck on daily basis had never been a merit until now.

Today was a bit different, though. Instead of wandering around aimlessly until he arrived Merlin knew where or brooding in the library, he decided to follow the path he took only a few days ago. He climbed the spiralling stairs, ignoring the damp air clinging to his skin, counting each step just to fill in the silence in his head. Once he reached the top of Astronomy Tower, he wasn’t surprised to see the girl from last time sitting in the corner.

Walking towards the balustrade, Draco eyed her as she nodded in acknowledgement. She sprawled somewhat gracefully on the floor, legs folded to the side, busy scribbling something on a small Muggle canvas. Draco raised his eyebrows, then decided to ignore her altogether. The fact that she was really familiar should be bothering him, but really, it wasn’t all that weird for him to recognise one or two younger housemates now, was it?

The fact that she seemed to not know, or care about who he was, despite Draco being certain it was only a delusion he wanted to believe, prevented him from asking her name. If anything, he wanted to _keep_ this. The feeling that he was a nobody, something he couldn’t feel anywhere else. Closing his eyes, he fell into the rhythm of _scratch, scratch, scratch,_ and for the first time in a long time he was grateful for not being alone.

Minutes and hours passed. Draco had taken to sitting on the floor, his eyes observing the random patterns formed by the dust on the tiles. His finger idly swiped it, drawing circles again and again. He was absently thinking of what use this tower served if it didn’t have telescopes anymore, when a sigh escaped the girl’s lips, catching Draco’s attention.

“What are you doing?” he asked tentatively.

“Sketching,” she said without taking her eyes off the canvas. “Making amends.”

“What kind of amends this time?”

She finally met his eyes, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “I feel bad. I never thought this castle would change this much. I should have memorised it more while I could.”

Draco tilted his head slightly to the side. “You’re sketching this castle.”

“I’m trying to remember what it was like.” She shrugged. “And memorise the new one so I’ll have no regrets if something happens again.”

“If something happens again,” Draco repeated, clucking his tongue. “How pessimistic.”

“Or when I graduate. It can be a good memory,” she continued as if Draco wasn’t being rude.

“Do you hate yourself for events of the past?”

She gave Draco a look that said he was being stupid. “Hate myself? Why would I do that?”

“Well, maybe the fact that you’re trying so hard to _make amends_ tells you something,” he drawled.

“Honestly?” She let out an amused laugh. “There’s a difference between hating one’s self and trying to change for the better.”

Draco fell into silence, leaning back to rest his head against the battlement. He heard the wind swirling rather loudly outside. He wondered if Potter was out flying even today.

“How do you know?” he asked after a long while.

“Pardon?” She looked a bit out of focus, her hand holding a charcoal pausing in mid air.

“How do you know that it’s for the better?”

“Well,” she said after a short gap, unsure, regarding Draco with _that_ look again. “I don’t know. But at least I’m doing something, and I think it’s better than not doing anything. Don’t you think so?”

Draco sucked the inside of his left cheek. Truthfully—he didn’t know what to think. Something about that statement reminded him of Potter and what he had said in the library, and Draco would rather forget anything about that. Besides, he was fairly sure that these things happening to him wouldn’t change automatically just because he wanted to change them—which he didn’t want, of course.

Yet, as she went back to sketching and acting as if he wasn’t there, Draco muttered a low _yes,_ for no real reason.

* * *

Lying on his back, Draco tapped his finger rhythmically on the smooth surface of his bed sheet, his other hand holding the letter before his eyes. One of his legs was stuck through the parted curtains, dangling freely towards the floor. He heaved a sigh, knowing that McGonagall was more than disappointed in his behaviour, if the sharp and short note was any indication. But . . . it didn’t really matter, did it? It had been a month, and only two weeks left until Christmas holiday. Optional Classes would be—well, optional, so he wasn’t obligated to attend them.

Slughorn was too lenient, though. If it were Snape, he wouldn’t be able to skip more than once. But again, perhaps Slughorn was trying to give him time, or whatever the professors and staff tended to do for the pitiful Slytherins after the war. Something to do with children’s rights and what they needed in order to recover from trauma—things like a safe environment and understanding adults and all that bollocks. As if it wasn’t just making it worse, as if they weren’t still holding a grudge, as if the eighth years weren’t already of age. Nott had practically had a breakdown after being questioned whether he was all right day after day, by those adults and their holier-than-thou attitude. 

Sighing again, Draco covered his eyes with an arm, the letter crumpled in his fist. He heard the sound of the door yanked open then, as heavy footsteps reverberated towards him.

“Dinner, Malfoy,” Goyle said, his voice flat but there was a slight hesitation Draco could catch.

“Just go by yourself, I’m in no mood to eat,” said Draco, pressing his arm harder over his eyes, inviting sparks of white under his eyelids.

“But . . .”

“Just go, Goyle.”

Silence, and then, “Are you sure you don’t want to . . .”

“What’s wrong with you?” Jerking his arm away from his eyes, Draco tugged the curtain to shoot a look at Goyle, blinking as his vision was still slightly blurry. “Just go. I’ll stop by the kitchen later if I need to. But not right now.”

Goyle stared at him, forehead creased and mouth hanging slightly open as if he wanted to say something. Under Draco’s scrutiny, however, he shrugged with what seemed like resignation, nodding slowly. “All right,” he said. Draco flopped his head on the pillow, sighing for the third time that night as Goyle made his way out of the dormitory.

Everything was weird. Things should be easier now—it _was_ supposed to be easy without all the inconvenience emotions could cause. Yet, Draco found himself losing more and more control. Why was it? What should he do for the better? What _was_ better anyway? What was wrong and what was right? What was so weird about wanting to have peace? To be away from those ugly feelings? What was so dangerous about being like this?

Closing his eyes, he could see the look on that girl’s face as she told him that _at least_ she was doing something, and Draco wondered if she was being sarcastic after all. Then Potter . . . Potter said he couldn’t say that he knew Draco anymore—wasn’t that the funniest statement of the century? It just sounded wrong on so many levels, if only because Potter _never_ actually knew Draco. What right did he have for acting all familiar with Draco? Better yet, why would he _care_?

Something was terribly wrong. Something must have happened to Potter.

He tried to find the answer, trying to remember things Potter had done and the way he looked this past month, and cursed under his breath when he really couldn’t remember much. Potter wasn’t his priority to think about lately, and now that he thought about it, he probably hadn’t paid too much attention to Potter since sixth year, too caught up with his own problems. The encounters he had had with Potter since that year—well, he couldn’t say those were nice to remember, considering two out of the little number of meetings had endangered his life, one at Potter’s own hands. And every humiliating time since war ended—none of those parts could help him figure out whatever Potter was doing.

In any case, Draco was restless. His mind couldn’t stop reeling, his eyes refused to close, and his body was too tense to rest. He nearly succumbed to the temptation to just— _Obliviate_ himself, but decided that it wasn’t worth the risk. Potter wasn’t worth the risk—at least, not anymore, now that the Dark Lord was dead. So he huffed in resignation, ran his hand through his hair and for once didn’t care about how it would mess it. Turning on his feet, he grabbed his cloak and broom, deciding it was time to clear his mind with some quick flying.

* * *

Draco regretted not paying attention this time. He was too used to letting his legs lead him wherever he went, so that he accidentally ended up near the new Ravenclaw tower. What made it worse, though, was that it wasn’t lesson time, and thus Draco found himself in his current predicament.

“Well, well, isn’t it a little late for brats to be running around the castle?” he drawled, taking in the six Ravenclaw boys that had started circling around him, closing his every chance of escape. Two of them were taller than him, but he was sure they were younger—probably in their sixth year. One of them, brown haired with freckles that could probably rival the Weasel’s, snorted loudly at his remark.

“Aren’t you being a little too cocky, Malfoy?” he said, earning cackles from the other five boys. “You know you can’t run to your daddy anymore. Why is that? Oh yes, because he’s a poor little pauper, isn’t he?” More cackles rang around them.

“Wonder what he did to escape from Azkaban, though. Did he sell your mummy to serve the Ministry so he could save his arse?” said a red haired, bulky boy, whose head didn’t even reach Draco’s shoulder. “Criminals can always get away nowadays, can’t they?”

Another boy was glaring with all his might at Draco, as though he could actually kill Draco by doing so. His short black hair hung stiffly around his long face, as his lips pulled into an ugly sneer. “Did you know what your Death Eater of a father did to my uncle? Just because he married a Muggle . . .” He trailed off, but the glare was intensified. “But now that scum can roam around freely, and you, too,” he added darkly, a wand shakily pointed towards Draco’s chest. “Fucking Death Eaters.”

If Draco were honest, he almost wished he could _feel_ again that very minute. If he could be angry, maybe he would be able to bring himself to retort and hex those little brats in record time. If he could be more emotional, maybe he would feel less guilty, because at least he would defend his family without thinking whether it was the right thing to do. But now he could only calculate every move the brats made, and think that from their point of view, the fact that his family was free was indeed unfair. But again, what did those brats know? They didn’t know what Draco and his family had gone through, and how could they talk about fairness? Who could claim the right to talk about fairness, when life just wasn’t fair?

“Can’t say anything? Ickle Malfoy is cowering in fright now, isn’t he?” The freckled one sniggered, pointing his wand at Draco’s face. The others immediately echoed the mocking laughter and soon Draco became the target of six wands. Gripping his own wand tightly, Draco’s eyes shifted back and forth to remember each face.

It was a losing battle, Draco knew. No matter how much better he was at duelling after the real war experience, his wand was still his mother’s old one. So when the first hex blasted towards his chest, he leapt to the side, throwing a weak stunning spell to the gap between the short, bulky one and a dirty blond one. As the two brats gasped in surprise, he jumped on his broom and flew through the opened space. Their surprise didn’t last long, though—a string of hexes shot towards him in less than a second. Avoiding them would have been easy if he could see them, but as it was, a spell flared on his left shoulder, nearly made him lose his balance. Hissing in pain, he flew faster, stopping only after he broke through Hogwarts’ main door.

Glancing over his shoulder to check whether his bullies followed, he calmed his breathing again and circled the air alertly. Satisfied that he heard no sounds coming from the door, he kicked up further, sensing the chill breeze of early December slapping against his skin. He shivered, cursing as he had forgotten to wear scarf and gloves. Flying higher and higher, he noticed several students hovering not so far from him, albeit a little lower, obviously playing unofficial Quidditch. He set off higher then, afraid that someone would notice his presence despite the darkness.

As he passed the Astronomy Tower’s height, he twirled and spiralled at speed, shooting up towards the clouds. Then he circled lazily again, adjusting his grip on the broom. His hands felt numb from the freezing weather, his cheeks stung so that he was sure he must look terribly red by now. But the cold helped ease away the pain in his shoulder, as he finally settled in the air, groping the back of his shoulder to check what kind of hex had hit him. He couldn’t find anything weird, though. Either the spell was a weak one, or his hand was too numb to feel anything.

He squinted, noting the tiny figures below as they swept back and forth, most likely chasing and beating the bludger. Glancing upward, Draco let his eyes travel the vast darkness of the night, unadorned without a single star, although the crescent moon was bright enough to help him see. It had been a long time since he last flew this high, he could feel the lack of oxygen in his heaving lungs. The white mist of his breath twirled lazily, as he blew his freezing hands. He didn’t know how long he stayed unmoving up there, but eventually his whole body started losing feeling, and his teeth chattered loudly. The wind that had felt refreshing minutes ago started to torture his raw skin, and Draco finally resolved to get back.

His hands were more freezing than he realised, though. It took several minutes for him to regain his grip on the broom handle. When he began to bend his upper body so it would be easier to steer, a terrible pain shot through his left shoulder, making him bite his tongue and utter a strangled yelp. His hands slipped off the broom handle, and he spun fast in the air, with only his legs locking around the broom. He twisted and spun in random directions, hands flailing in the air, as he tried to regain his grip and balance. As the broom finally slowed down, he took several breaths, hung upside down beneath the broom, and his legs so leaden he thought he could slip from the broom any second. Then slowly he took in the view around him.

The Astronomy Tower was far below, looking upside down, and the students playing Quidditch were no longer in sight. Thoughts came and went whilst he tried to find the best solution to his current predicament. He knew he should just move up carefully to grip the handle, but his limbs refused to cooperate, and everything felt frozen, dead, helpless. He could see how his legs shook slightly, but he doubted he would feel anything even if someone stabbed his legs with a sword. Closing his eyes, he tried to just—breathe, breathe, breathe, then he opened his eyes to see the Astronomy Tower again.

It was funny, he thought dryly. He would most likely die in a matter of minutes, and all he could see was the place where everything started to go pear-shaped in his life. But he wasn’t scared about his impending death, wasn’t stressed out at the sight of Dumbledore falling from the tower replaying in his mind. And really, it wasn’t exactly a bad thing, was it, to pay for his sins by free falling from hundreds of feet higher than the Astronomy Tower? He could imagine the cheers that would erupt the moment people knew about his death.

He supposed he should feel guilty for his parents, though. They would—lose another hope for living yet again. He stared up towards the sky, and could hear the sounds of cloth slipping against the broom, signalling that his legs had started to give away. In the seconds that were coming, he entertained the notion of what if—what if he still could feel? He would be panicked, and chances were he would lose his grip faster. Still, people said when humans were on the verge of danger, they had an imperative to stay alive—a push that wouldn’t come if one wasn’t under such distress. Perhaps if he was scared, he would have the energy to climb up on his broom again, and perhaps—that kind of power was what drove Potter to beat the Dark Lord.

“You shouldn’t not have fear . . . .” Draco mouthed weakly, his lips moving ever so slightly. “It’s dangerous, Malfoy.” He let out a shaky laugh, the sound barely more than a whisper, then his legs slid off the broom completely.

At first, his vision was only full of the dark night sky, yet he could feel everything spinning. The sound of the wind roared in his ears, and his eyes stung from the sharpness of it. Then the next second, something crashed into his whole body, the impact knocking his breath out of his lungs. He froze, wide eyed and lost, thinking maybe he had reached the ground, before the things surrounding him became clearer again. He was still in the air, but—he was floating. Blinking several times for his brain still couldn’t catch up with the situation, he caught a blur of red and gold rushing towards him out of the corner of his eye, until Potter’s face came into view.

Draco held his breath.

Cheeks flushed from the chill, Potter’s eyes were wide and wild behind his glasses, his lips parted in exertion. Beads of perspiration still claimed his forehead despite the freezing weather, hair mussed more than usual. But he was pale, face stricken in what Draco could see was horror and—desperation, and his whole body trembling, if the violent shakes of his wand were any indication. Potter was—so alive.

“Malfoy,” Potter cried, his voice nowhere near the tone Draco knew so well. “Malfoy, I’ll get you!” Potter was fumbling with his wand, looking frantic and lost as if he didn’t know what to do with it. But then he looked determined, and while keeping his wand pointed at Draco, he flew to Draco’s side, taking his arm. “I got you, I got you,” he said shakily. Draco wasn’t certain if he said it again and again to calm Draco down, or to convince himself.

Pulling Draco nearer by the arm, he proceeded to wrap his own arm around Draco’s torso. The moment he was assured the extra weight wouldn’t unbalance him, he released the Levitation Spell, helping Draco’s leg to cross over his broom’s handle with the hand that was holding a wand, while the other kept around Draco’s torso in a tight grip. Settling Draco’s back on his chest, he breathed loudly against Draco’s shoulder. “Bloody hell,” he said erratically, “must you give me a heart attack?”

“Too bad my plan to kill you has failed then?” Draco asked, lips aching from the movement, unsure about the development.

“Git.” Potter exhaled again, this time his breath caressing Draco’s neck lightly. It sent needles into Draco’s freezing skin, and he wanted to wriggle away, but his limbs were still as useless as ever. Potter started to fly lower in slow, smooth motions. 

When they reached the snowy ground, Potter manoeuvred him so he could stand, before jumping off the broom. Draco’s legs were still two ice sticks though, so he collapsed helplessly. Potter seemed to consider something, eyeing Draco as he surrendered to the temptation to fall face first into the snow, mainly because he had no energy to support his body anymore. He sighed, a headache pounding in his head.

“ _Accio_ Malfoy’s broom,” Potter said after a while, and in less than a minute Draco’s broom was in Potter’s grasp. He took his own broom and held it together with Draco’s, before he turned around. “You’ve got to warm up,” he said.

Draco managed a nod. “Can’t move, though,” he said hoarsely.

“I’ll help,” said Potter, his hands started to pull Draco’s arms. Draco winced as the muscle on his left shoulder strained. “What? What happened?” Crouching, Potter helped him sit. “Did you injure yourself?”

Shaking his head, Draco put his weight on Potter’s shoulder, trying painstakingly to stand. Potter’s arm snaked around his waist immediately. “Someone hexed me, I don’t know what kind of hex, but the effect made me fall off my broom.” He laughed dryly.

“That’s not funny,” Potter said, frowning. Draco only shrugged.

“How did you find me anyway? Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Does it matter? I saved you.”

Draco found himself longing for the bubbling anger that used to overcome him. But he was tired, his limbs felt like they would fall off and rot, and his brain threatened to shut down any moment. His teeth had started to rattle again, now that some of the castle’s warmth had begun to seep into his skin. So he let go, ignoring Potter’s show of heroism again, ignoring the fact that he was saved by Potter again, and not saying anything until Madam Pomfrey tugged him into one of the beds.

* * *

“I hope you understand this cannot go on any longer,” McGonagall said. “Hogwarts is a school, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco pressed his lips into a thin line, his hands clenching on his thighs as he stared at the spot beyond McGonagall’s right shoulder. In his peripheral, he could see the portrait of Snape trying not to notice him, and Dumbledore rubbing his chin in silent observation. The other former headmasters and headmistresses simply escaped Draco’s attention.

“I do understand, Professor.”

McGonagall seemed to resist the urge to sigh, her worry lines grew more visible across her face. “If I may ask, Mr Malfoy, what is your purpose in coming back to Hogwarts?”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Draco said, “I don’t understand. Isn’t it obvious that I came back for my N.E.W.T.s?”

At this, she at last gave up to sighing. “Mr Malfoy, you were invited to finish your N.E.W.T. level education together with your other year mates, of course. And I could say I am very pleased by your enthusiasm to take six N.E.W.T.s instead of the usual five.” She paused to thread her fingers on the desk. “You are even taking the additional course of Extra Alchemy this year.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Draco waited for whatever McGonagall was planning to tell him. Surely she wasn’t calling him here only to—praise him? Merlin forbid she favoured a Slytherin. Besides, he picked six subjects just so he didn’t have time to think about anything, but McGonagall didn’t need to know that.

“Now if only that enthusiasm could be proven to be true. Potions and Charms—from what I’ve heard, you’re so conveniently insisting on not attending the lessons. And your other N.E.W.T. choices are also . . . .” She paused again, levelling her eyes more firmly at Draco’s. “Based on your O.W.L., I see that you are more than capable of taking the N.E.W.T. for Defence Against the Dark Arts. More so than Herbology, and I believe your Head of House has approved you to take —”

“I feel it’s better to take Herbology rather than Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Draco said, not caring at how McGonagall’s eyebrows tweaked in disapproval for his rude interruption. “I don’t think I can handle more than six N.E.W.T.s, so I had to choose, Professor.”

“May I ask why you made that choice, then? I presume you’re well informed that every area of expertise requires different sets of N.E.W.T.s, but you have changed the courses the late Professor Snape approved of in your fifth year.” She leaned forward a little. “What is your plan after Hogwarts, Mr Malfoy?”

Biting the inside of his lower lip, Draco knew what McGonagall was trying to say now. This was one of those _‘Pity the Death Eater Children’_ speeches. “I don’t have any specific plans, Professor. Aside from . . . continuing my life, assuming I can still find a job. In fact, I’ll be lucky if I get any job at all, won’t I?”

“That’s not something you can be sure of,” she said, but Draco could see how unsure she was with her own words. “But now I’m certain you picked your N.E.W.T.s randomly—without purpose.”

“Not entirely true.” Draco shook his head slightly. “I picked the ones I enjoyed the most, or the ones I found easier.”

“And Herbology is one of them?”

“Anything other than Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

McGonagall merely stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. But I expect you to think more about what you want to do after graduation.” She broke the eye contact and started browsing through the piles of parchment on her desk. “And I would hate to hear more reports about your absence in Potions and Charms.” She handed him a bundle of blank parchment. “You will be serving detention with Mr Filch for skipping lessons until the start of the Christmas holidays, and you are to write your future plans using this parchment every Saturday.”

Draco jerked his head up to stare blankly at her. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Your future plans, Mr Malfoy. Write anything you can think of, no matter how mundane they seem to be. The parchment is charmed so it will be sent directly to me the moment you finish writing, and you will be continuing to write every week until you are sure about your choice—or until graduation. Whichever comes first, I say.”

“What—but—why? I’m not aware that it’s within your authority to—”

“I would say it is within my authority,” McGonagall said. “As long as it is connected to your study at Hogwarts, and I assure you that every future plan _is_ connected to your study.”

Draco was tempted to crumple the parchment into rubbish. “Is this because I skipped lessons?”

“One of the reasons, yes.” She inclined her head slightly. “But also because of other reasons.”

“Do I even want to know what the other reasons are?” Draco let out a wry laugh, then shook his head in mock surrender as McGonagall opened her mouth to say something. “No, no, it’s fine. I can do it. I’ll write every weekend. But I can’t promise that you’ll be satisfied with what you’ll read.”

McGonagall’s lips thinned slightly. “My satisfaction has nothing to do with your education. This is in your own best interest. Do understand that, Mr Malfoy.”

It was all Draco could do not to snort in McGonagall’s face. “Yes, I’m sure it is.” He nodded. “Now if that’s all, may I leave, Professor?”

At McGonagall’s wave of dismissal, Draco tried not to look too eager to leave. He gave her one last polite nod as he stood up, persistently ignoring the way her gaze seemed to be radiating several emotions that he refused to name, and the penetrating stares of all the portraits behind her.

* * *

“Here.” Another set of parchment was shoved in his face as soon as Draco slouched on an armchair in the common room. “Pansy wanted me to give these to you,” Daphne Greengrass said with a huff. “Really, Malfoy? Are you planning on dropping out of school?”

“First of all, Greengrass, why didn’t Pansy give these—” He squinted at the parchment to read Pansy’s artistic scribbles. “—Potions notes herself?”

“Because she’s upset with you.” She rolled her eyes as though it was the most obvious answer.

Draco snorted. “Second, you don’t need to worry. Apparently McGonagall thinks detention is enough of a punishment.”

“Really.” She nodded thoughtfully.

“What?” he asked.

“I think you’ll be fine, Malfoy,” said Greengrass unconvincingly, as if she was forced to say something nice about him. She absentmindedly played with the sleeve of her long, slim black robes. “Well, at least your family is unscathed.”

At first, Draco almost opened his mouth to argue, because what the bloody hell did she know about him and his family? She was never involved in the war, her family never took sides, and of course she wouldn’t know how messed up everything was for everyone in the war, would she? But then he snapped his mouth closed the moment Greengrass continued, “Some of us aren’t that lucky.”

Because he had forgotten—he had forgotten how Mr Greengrass and his brother had been victims. He had forgotten why Greengrass always wore those black robes of mourning outside classes. Because even though her family was never officially in the war, they were dragged into the mess and mistakenly killed. And no one remembered the Greengrasses were never Death Eaters in the first place. People conveniently thought they were on the wrong side of the war simply because they were Slytherins and an old pureblood family. They weren’t heroes, they weren’t victims from the Light side, neither were they from the Dark side. Nobody mourned their loss—

Taking a sharp breath, Draco clenched his jaw as he remembered who had said something along those lines before. Slowly, he looked up and trained his eyes on Greengrass longer than necessary, observing every curve of her features.

“What?” Greengrass snapped.

“Hmm.” He nodded, then shrugged with his best nonchalant look. Shuffling through the parchment, he feigned interest in reading Pansy’s notes. “Thanks for this, could you tell Pansy that I’ll be in classes again starting tomorrow?”

“Well,” said Greengrass, her eyebrows raised a bit in suspicion. “Maybe you’d better surprise her.”

“Right.” Draco nodded once more.

Greengrass was still staring at him, yet as he didn’t say anything more and insisted on ignoring her existence altogether, she at last gave up and left towards the girls’ dormitory. Draco only looked up once her steps were no longer audible, sinking deeper into the squishy armchair.

* * *

The Christmas holidays were coming closer. It was, Draco thought, uneventful and boring, though he refused to admit that it was mainly because Potter was missing. Potter’s existence as of late was like an annoying fly—always there, lurking in the background and in the corner of Draco’s eyes, but wouldn’t outright approach him so he could snap his palms together and smash it once and for all. Instead, that lingering stare followed Draco everywhere like the buzz of a fly’s wings. It made Draco’s neck prickle. Yet as time went on, it turned out he was getting used to receiving such attention from Potter. Weeks without seeing the git proved to be bland and—well, it felt strange.

He went to N.E.W.T. Potions and Charms without absence, despite Draco’s difficulties following the first two lessons after his constant truancy. Detention with Filch was also—well, the usual. As long as Draco kept his mouth shut and obeyed Filch’s instructions, he could pretend nothing had happened—not that he favoured the notion of obeying a squib. The only thing that made his lesson hell was Potter’s Potions work, which Draco failed to recognise from the colour and smell. He recalled Slughorn did ask students to come up for new versions of the known potions as their N.E.W.T. projects, but—

Sniffing the cauldron one more time, Draco wrinkled his nose immediately as though the odour could cauterize his nasal passages. It was—foul, one of the nastiest things he had ever smelt. It reminded him of shit, vomit and decaying animal corpses in the Forbidden Forest, but even those couldn’t do this one justice. Yet, unlike the usual potions, the smell didn’t linger in the air. No one had noticed the vile concoction, if his fellow classmates were anything to go by. When Zabini got up from his seat to take some more ingredients from the back of the classroom, Draco nudged Zabini’s arm and raised an eyebrow as his hand gestured to the offending cauldron on his desk. “Smell anything interesting?”

Shuffling over to Draco’s desk, Blaise looked at him askance. “Mm, should I?”

“You should. Come closer.”

Zabini obeyed warily, taking a tentative sniff at the cauldron before his dark skin turned a bit blue. “Fuck.”

“Language, Zabini.” Draco smirked.

“What the—how—what did you do to produce such a _disgusting_ thing?” Zabini shuddered, stepping backward and taking a frantic deep breath as though it could help cleanse his nostrils and lungs from the traumatic odour.

“Didn’t do anything. I’m lost as to what I’m supposed to do with this, actually.” Draco shrugged. “Potter has one impressive skill in potions making, it seems.”

“Why don’t you ask him what he’s trying to do with this . . . .” Zabini shuddered again. “Ugh.”

“Maybe I’d ask him if he actually showed up.” Glancing over to where Slughorn was praising Granger and Boot’s cauldron, Draco pouted. “It’s been two weeks. I’ll fail my Potions N.E.W.T.”

“Funny you didn’t seem to care about that two weeks ago.”

“If I go to lessons, might as well get O’s for all my N.E.W.T.s. That’s the plan.”

Rolling his eyes, Zabini snorted. “Outstandings for all subjects. You’re not Granger.”

“Thank Merlin,” Draco snapped. Zabini had the grace to snicker as he sauntered lazily away. Biting his inner cheek, Draco frowned, glaring at the cauldron before he resolutely announced to himself that if Potter didn’t show up by Friday, he would start the project all over again with another potion.

As it turned out, the weekend came, younger students were getting ready for the holidays, and Potter was still nowhere to be seen. Draco was already shoving his Potions textbooks into his bag so he could formulate a new potion project in the library, when he caught sight of the parchment McGonagall gave him. He shifted from one heel to the other, then sighed, grabbing the parchment and heading out of the dungeons.

What the bloody hell was McGonagall’s intention? He had written two—letters? Journals? Reports? Whatever they were, the contents were stupid and he was sure McGonagall would call him the moment he finished writing. But so far he hadn’t been summoned, and now he had to write the third one. Not that it would make a difference. He would write the same random short sentence again this week— _continue living_. McGonagall probably didn’t even bother reading them.

Shrugging to himself, Draco walked out of the common room, absently thinking if he had been invited to design the new Hogwarts, he would make sure to destroy Gryffindor Tower completely, or just petition to close the barbaric house altogether. Then, he spotted someone who made him hasten his steps. Draco had never been this proud of having longs legs before, but clearly they made everything easier at times like this.

“Astoria Greengrass,” he called as she was just about to turn a corner. She paused, looking over her shoulder slowly while Draco caught up with her.

“Yes?” she asked with a blank expression. Draco wondered why Greengrass—Daphne could be so snappy and annoying, when her little sister was so . . . um. A bit odd, but definitely a vast improvement.

“Are you heading to the Astronomy Tower?” he asked once he was an arm’s length away from her, just because he didn’t know how to begin.

“No, I’m just finished packing and I’m meeting a friend before I have to leave.”

“I see.” Draco nodded and tried not to fret with the hem of his sleeve. “You’re going home.”

“Yes.” Raising her eyebrows—they almost disappeared behind her fringe—she pinned him with an unreadable gaze. “But you’re not stopping me just to ask that.” That made Draco take a steadying breath.

“Actually,” he began, “I just want to . . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’m Draco Malfoy, pleased to meet you.”

“Ah.” Astoria’s eyebrows relaxed and she smiled, a dimple appearing on her left cheek. “But you’re not suggesting I didn’t already know who you are, are you?”

“Play along, please?” Draco feigned a sigh. “It’s just I wanted to believe our meetings were anonymous. It was much . . . easier for me that way. But now that I’ve known you, I think it’s time for a new start or something.”

Astoria seemed to ponder over his words for a moment, her thin lips pursed slightly. “You want me to think I was talking to a complete stranger before, and now I’m going to talk with the real Draco Malfoy.”

“It’s not that wrong, in a sense.” Draco turned over to lean against the wall. “About me being a complete stranger. But yes, I wanted to be a . . .” He worried the inside of his cheek. “. . . nobody.”

“I’m surprised you know my name,” she said after a short gap.

“I remembered the Sorting Feast, when Green—Daphne said you were her sister.”

“But then you spent almost six years forgetting about me.”

Despite the statement, she appeared to be amused, lifting the weight from Draco’s chest. For the first time since he had returned to Hogwarts, he smiled without thinking about his secret, about Potter, about McGonagall, or even life in general. It was just a simple tug at his lips’ corners, which relaxed his face muscles and made everything seem light and all right.

“So, do you think we . . . ?”

“Astoria Greengrass,” she said, offering her hand for him to plant a light peck. “Pleasure, Draco Malfoy.”

Then Draco almost let out a chuckle while still holding her hand. Something ticklish was spreading from his stomach that got Draco wondering whether it was happiness or another, nameless feeling, and whether he had ever experienced it before, or if it was new to him after all. Almost, because before he could, he caught sight of Harry sodding Potter standing in the opposite corner, a hand gripping a window sill and looking grimmer than usual.

Draco’s mouth felt dry.

“Oh Harry, can we just get on with it?” Girl Weasley emerged from behind Potter, obviously escaping Draco’s vision because of the simple unimportance of her existence in general. Not that Potter was important by any means, but seriously? With all the stalking he had done, anyone would recognise him in a flash. “Harry, I honestly think you have things to _do_.” She frowned at Draco, and he could hear the unsaid, _with me,_ at the end of her sentence. But Draco, for once, noticed Potter’s eyes weren’t on him, but rather on— “Harry!” Girl Weasley shook Potter’s arm in exasperation.

“Yeah, er.” Potter, still staring at Astoria, put his hand on top of Girl Weasley’s on his arm and looked suddenly more distressed than ever. That kind of threw Draco off balance, because now that he thought about it, since the first day they arrived at Hogwarts this year, he had noticed Potter’s crumpled and unhealthy complexion—yet now he looked even _worse_ than that. “Er, yeah, let’s . . . .” Potter, the ever eloquent hero, nodded once, avoiding Draco’s scrutiny to tug Girl Weasley’s hand as he walked past Draco and Astoria.

Draco wanted to trip him over and demanded how long he had been listening, or where he had been these past weeks, or what the bloody hell that horrid potion was, or if he was plotting to fail Draco’s N.E.W.T. just to flaunt the fact that as everyone’s hero, he didn’t have to worry about a _proper_ education and all that bollocks. But Draco remained silent because he glanced at Astoria’s hand in his own, and realised he didn’t want to sacrifice this moment of peace between them.

* * *

Potter, with his privilege as a hero, kept avoiding him and never came to Optional Classes—or at least the ones that Draco signed up for. But now Draco would catch him hovering somewhere behind, sometimes looking ashen and sometimes just blank, before he noticed Draco’s gaze and running away with his tail between his legs. So much for being a hero of the Wizarding world.

Once, Draco saw him lingering outside the Owlery, pacing back and forth before deciding to come inside and head out not long after. He didn’t realise Draco was watching, and Draco had no intention of making him notice, because somehow, this stalking and life-saving thing and then running away like Draco was a disease didn’t seem right. Potter never ran away—if he did, Draco might still be cowering in fear under the Dark Lord’s regime right now.

Then when the Christmas Feast had begun, with all the seventh and eighth year students sat at the Ravenclaw table, Potter plopped down opposite of Draco as if he hadn’t just spent weeks evading Draco. Weasel was clearly objecting to the seating arrangement, red-faced with poorly suppressed rage, and Granger kept eyeing Draco—and Pansy—with a frown. Nott elbowed Draco’s ribs subtly, though he could only reply to the unsaid question with a raised eyebrow.

The heavy silence was unnerving, though Draco merely knew it from Pansy’s stricken expression and the twitches by Nott’s left eye. Even the other houses’ students were glancing at them as though there would be Slytherin versus Gryffindor confrontation any second—which admittedly, could still happen. But then Zabini, the ever carefree bastard, broke the tension by insulting Potter with barely masked glee.

“So Potter, I heard Malfoy is having to make a new potion for his N.E.W.T. assignment because yours had a really _interesting_ scent. I wonder what you were actually trying to brew, hmm?”

Potter was surprised for a moment, and then his face grew so red it was almost amusing. “Um. I knew it would be a failure . . . .”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Zabini sang.

Weasel bristled. “What’s it to you? Leave him alone.”

“In case you didn’t notice, I asked Potter, not you.” Zabini smiled charmingly, the kind of smile that always made Draco shudder inside. Granger frowned disapprovingly, and Draco prayed it would be permanently stuck on her Know-It-All face.

“It’s okay, Ron,” said Potter, although his eyes now slid to Draco’s. “I wanted to, um, it was Amortentia . . . .”

“Amortentia?” Draco couldn’t help but echo in disbelief. Even Granger and Weasel, who Draco knew must have smelt it, stared at Potter in horror. Zabini looked as if he was about to die from laughing. Potter buried his face in his hands. “Seriously?”

“It was a failure, okay? I don’t know what’s wrong with it, I only wanted to change the colour, not the scent!”

“Oh, God.” Draco wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead. “I must be dreaming. It’s a nightmare. A nightmare in which Amortentia smells like—”

Suddenly he had to resist the urge to vomit for an entirely different reason from two months ago.

“I told you I couldn’t do it _alone_!” Potter hissed, his cheeks flushed.

“Oh Draco, poor you, dear. Do you think Professor Slughorn will allow you to change partners?” Pansy smirked, dabbing Draco’s dry cheek with a handkerchief delicately. “Anyway, we all know even Amortentia won’t help Potter get laid.”

“Because he’s a loser,” said Nott helpfully.

“And a specky git,” said Zabini, still cackling. “Poor Potty.”

“Harry will do better without him anyway,” Weasel snarled, baring his teeth at each of them for good measure. Granger glared at him, then narrowed her eyes at Potter, whose face was now as red as the Weasel’s hair.

“You don’t have time to change partners and start from the beginning again, Harry. And you must stop skipping lessons.”

“Actually, thanks to Potter here, I had to start from the beginning again,” said Draco, but Granger ignored him wholly.

“Harry, you know you have to start taking this all _seriously_.”

“Yes, Potter, you must get used to being a normal student, no matter how used you are to being a hero,” Draco added just because he could. Potter glared at him with a passion.

The rest of the Feast went with Zabini snickering like the madman he was, Pansy fussing over Draco, Goyle being Goyle with lots and lots of food, and Nott busy giving Potter the evil eye. Of course, hearing Potter’s incoherent replies and Weasel’s splutters for Granger’s lecture were only entertaining to a certain extent, and soon Draco found himself bored beyond repair. That was until Girl Weasley stepped into the scene, apparently having purposefully been late to the Feast only to drag Potter away, presumably searching for mistletoe for a Christmas snogging session.

It wasn’t until midnight, when Draco was doing his Prefect duty after a nice hot bath, that he met Potter again. The corridor was empty, and the floating candles had deserted the area so Draco was using _Lumos_ to guide his way. And Potter was there, sitting in an alcove that was partly hidden by a suit of armour, his glasses reflecting the light from Draco’s wand. Maybe if it was someone else, they would think it was some kind of strange creature skulking in the dark, but Draco was somehow sure that it was Potter. No one else could have those hideous glasses and rat’s nest hair.

“You’re unbelievable,” Draco said. “Hiding in the dark on Christmas Eve.”

“It’s already Christmas now,” said Potter, his expression rigid as Draco came closer. “Happy Christmas.”

Draco took a deep breath. “Tell me. Is it one of your games now, to stalk me and then leave me for weeks only to try being all friendly again? Is it some kind of, oh I don’t know, push and pull ploy to win my heart?” He cupped his chest to emphasize. Potter’s breath hitched, before his eyes shadowed behind those horrible glasses.

“Er. No, of course not. I was just.” He scratched his head, his hair sticking up in every direction dreadfully. “I was just distracted—”

“Oh, not that again!” Draco almost snarled. “Distracted, is that all you can come up with, Potter? Funny, because I’ve heard that word coming from you three times in less than two months.”

“That’s because I’m telling the truth.” Potter scowled, and then his eyes widened a fraction, as though he had just remembered something. “You know, Malfoy, are you always like that lately?”

“What.” Draco wrinkled his nose in a way he hoped clearly convey his distaste. “How terrible are your stalking skills for not noticing that I’ve been like this since I was born.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean that.” Potter licked his lips. “I mean, you didn’t eat much at the Feast, and you look too thin. Have you been eating at all lately?”

“Nice, now you’re trying to be my mother,” said Draco, looking everywhere but at the pathetic excuse of a hero curling on the floor. “Next time you’d fuss about my appearance—not that you could talk about appearance at all.”

“But does that have anything to do with, you know, your emotional problems?”

“I don’t have emotional problems, thank you very much,” Draco snapped. Observing him in silence, Potter tilted his head slightly to the side.

“Yeah. I guess you’re doing better now.” He seemed to have drawn his own conclusion, ducking his head to stare at his trainers. “I guess that’s because, um.”

“What? Because of what?”  

Potter’s voice was steady and calm when he spoke, but he was still not looking at Draco. “Because of her?”

“. . . her?”

“You can smile, I mean, a real smile. You can joke with your friends, and you seem a bit angry at me now,” said Potter, trying to shrug and give off at the nonchalant vibe to no avail.

“You’re meaning to say that you know when I feign my feelings and when I don’t,” Draco said, almost spitting out the words in distaste. Potter startled and looked up.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I already told you that I didn’t spend years hating you in vain.”

Draco watched Potter fretting with the loose thread on the hem of his jumper. Sighing, Draco cut the remaining distance between him and the alcove, and took a seat beside Potter—not close enough that they could touch, but enough to feel the warmth of Potter’s breath as he faced Draco in surprise.

“Don’t think I’m stupid,” said Draco, staring at the opposite wall where an empty golden frame hung proudly, shadows dancing on the wall and floor with every movement Draco made with his wand. “No one sane would spend seven years trying to know everything about the people they hate, and really actually _know_ them. That’s not how hatred works.”

Silence stretched out uncomfortably, at which point Draco drew up his knees and rested his arms on them. After a while, Potter mirrored the position, but he buried his face in his arms.

“Don’t tell me you avoided me because of that,” Draco said, glancing sideways. Potter didn’t answer, but Draco could see his shoulders tensed under that silly jumper. Draco rolled his eyes. “There, there. Care to explain to me why, though?”

“I—” There was a slight choking sound. “I don’t know, I don’t even . . .”

“What about Girl Weasley?”

Jerking his face up, Potter frowned. “Ginny?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Oh,” said Potter, already finding his ugly trainers attractive to stare at again. “We’re not. We’ve split up before I—before all of that.”

Draco gave a soft hum. “But you’re wrong.”

“What—”

Draco took a deep breath. “I almost fell off my broom, I almost died, but I didn’t—I couldn’t feel scared.”

“But you can smile now, that’s nice,” said Potter softly, so soft that Draco almost couldn’t hear him. Draco resisted the urge to grit his teeth.

“Your stalking habit must be stopped,” he announced, glaring wholeheartedly at Potter.” I find it horribly disturbing that you spoke of Astoria as if you were _jealous_.”

The frown lines on Potter’s face deepened. “What? I’m _not_ jealous! I’m not even—” He paused. “Her name’s Astoria?”

“Enough,” Draco said firmly, and Potter’s shoulder jerked a little. “That’s just not going to happen, Potter. About you. No, I refuse to acknowledge your . . .” Draco hesitated, sensing his tongue struggle _not_ to say the word. “. . . your _whatever_. I just can’t.”

Potter was silent, his gaze roaming and searching on the side of Draco’s face. “You don’t have to,” he said.

“And—and stop thinking about whatever it is you want to do,” Draco continued. “Stop doing this to me. I need this. I need to not feel anything. I’d spent too much time hating myself, I—”

“Malfoy—”

“I don’t. I never feel safe with you,” Draco finished.

He could feel Potter watching him with intensity, burning his right cheek and forcing him to curl his fingers, but he didn’t want to see Potter right now. Something was slipping inside him even more, sliding from his grasp, uncontrollable, and Draco knew it would be _bad_. He would regret it, would long for this peace if he gave up. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t.

“Okay,” Potter said, resigned, and Draco breathed again as Potter’s gaze fell to the floor. “I don’t know what you’re thinking about my ‘ _whatever’_ , or I just don’t _want_ to know about it, but—giving up is never my strength . . . I thought I should let you know that.”

Draco wanted to sneer, to mock Potter and lash with cruelty that would make sure of Potter’s defeat, but instead, he just took a long moment to remain silent, then said, “I know, I didn’t spend years hating you in vain.”

And he walked away.

* * *

“Something’s going on, isn’t it?” Pansy rested her head on Draco’s shoulder, examining her pink nails with an extremely bored face while Draco reviewed his Study of Ancient Runes assignment that was due in February. The common room was empty but for the two of them, the fire from the hearth doing nothing to help warm the late January air. “You and Daphne’s sister.”

“What about Astoria?” Draco asked, couldn’t resist a smile.

“Ha. First name basis,” Pansy said, sounding too eager in breaking Draco’s defence for a girl with that terribly bored expression. “Are you two together?”

“I’d confuse her with Daphne if I called her Greengrass,” said Draco, amused. “And what’s with you and Potter, anyway? Does it matter who I’m going out with?”

“I don’t like that girl—”

“You don’t like anyone but me.”

“—and what’s with this Potter thing? Are you keeping things from me?” Pansy frowned.

“Pansy, Pansy,” he drawled, sinking deeper on the sofa and let Pansy’s head follow his shoulder’s lead. “Why the sudden interest in my love life?”

“I’m always interested, you know that.” She scowled. “And you haven’t answered my questions.”

“Which question?”

“Both. Are you going out with Daphne’s sister? Or are you with _Potter_?”

“Merlin, no.” Draco put on an expression of horror as best as he could.

“But I keep seeing him following you around. Except when you’re with her, he seems to avoid running into your little rendezvous.” Pansy pinched her small nose in disgust. “I smell scandals, Draco. Be honest with me.”

Draco was seriously considering that. But Pansy was still Pansy, and telling her one thing would lead to another, and he couldn’t imagine what she would think if she knew his problem. Besides, it wasn’t like he _could_ really fall in love or be involved in whatever absurd idea Pansy was having.

“Maybe Potter thinks I’m up to something, being an evil Death Eater and all,” he said finally. “And Pansy, I’m not even with Astoria that often.”

She snorted incredulously.

“You’re an exceptionally elegant lady indeed,” drawled Draco.

Pansy snorted once more.

Draco laughed. “I assure you, Milady,” he said slowly, inclining his head, “you’re not missing much.”

Pansy rolled her eyes and smirked playfully.

* * *

January was rolling to an end, and so Hogwarts was full of over-excited students about the upcoming Valentine’s Day. Naturally, now that the war was over and Harry Potter was an official hero, the population of the Potter’s fan club had increased dangerously. Everywhere Draco went, he would hear ‘Potter this’ and ‘Potter that’, not to mention the giggling girls and the sickening pink aura that seemed to follow them permanently. The sweet scent of love potions lingered in every corridor along with fourth to seventh year students busy practicing various irritating spells, like conjuring flying hearts and tiny bells. That, of course, made Draco’s head pound with migraine.

“Do something, Potter,” said Draco, his fingers itched to massage his pulsing temples. “That was the ninth pink balloon that exploded our way and it had _pink glitter_!”

“I can’t do anything.” Potter scowled, wiping pink glitter from his glasses with his hideous red jumper, already covered with an equally hideous pink substance. Whoever sent that balloon must be cursed until next week because no amount of rubbing and _Scourgify_ could get rid of them. “Ah!” Potter suddenly sounded too cheerful after he gave up cleaning his glasses. “Are you angry? Your hair is pink, Malfoy.”

“And so is yours,” Draco snapped. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Is this a conspiracy? A big plan to make the cool, calm and collected me mad? A ploy to make the great me fall into humiliation? And for your information, no, I’m not angry, I’m _nauseous_.”

“Oh.” Potter looked disappointed for a second, but then he smiled in satisfaction again. “At least you’re now back to your usual melodramatic self. That’s nice.” Then he frowned. “Actually it’s not nice being melodramatic, but—it’s still nice now.”

Draco wanted so badly to throw Potter from the Astronomy Tower.

“I’m done for today. I can’t research anything with this disgusting pink all over my body, and I certainly can’t work with you around.” He packed his books and quill into his bag almost savagely. The spectators in the library had taken to cackling and giggling in the background.

“But I’m your partner, I have to be around you,” Potter said helpfully. Draco whirled around in a flash.

“No you don’t, you can’t even brew Amortentia!”

Potter frowned. “It was only that one time—”

“And you almost turned our Felix Felicis into the Draught of Constipation!”

“Hmph,” said Potter. “How should I know we should crush the rose petals?”

“Exactly,” Draco yelled scandalously. “You didn’t know, did you? You didn’t know but you could win the bloody potion in sixth year!”

“Ah.” Potter smiled dazedly. “That was marvellous.”

“Merlin!” Draco nearly tore at his hair, which was taboo on so many levels. He grabbed his bag before the sounds of Madam Pince’s footsteps could turn in their direction, and stomped towards the exit. Unfortunately, Potter didn’t seem troubled by leaving his belongings in the library and caught up with Draco.

“I think,” Potter began, “you’re angry.”

“Sod off, Potter,” hissed Draco.

“And I saw you laugh yesterday. Genuinely. You have to admit it.”

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!”

“I think this is a nice development, you know?”

Draco had had enough.

Whirling around, he slammed Potter against the wall and pinned him with a hand tight around Potter’s collar. His whole body was crushed against Potter’s, the heave on Potter’s chest telling Draco that Potter was surprised, and Draco’s knee was flat between Potter’s thighs. The look on Potter’s face as he stared in shock behind the pink glasses, under pink messy hair, and with smears of pink on his nose and cheeks, was so ridiculous that Draco wanted to laugh. But he didn’t.

“Which part of _‘stop doing this to me’_ do you find hard to understand?” Draco whispered low, his words coming out in spiteful hisses. Potter’s neck was so stiff that Draco could see the muscles contracted and his pulse drumming frantically. But his eyes were now staring indifferently—the stare he used whenever he saw Draco back in the sixth year, the one that screamed of pity and disdain and superiority. Draco wanted to kill him for staring.

“I told you I’m not giving up,” Potter said calmly. “And I’m positive you’re angry now.”

“Oh, tell you what?” Draco tightened his grasp on Potter’s collar, and Potter hitched in mild suffocation. “I’m _furious_. I hate you. I never hated you this much before. But congratulations, you’ve taken me to new levels of hatred—who would have even thought it possible?”

“Good,” Potter said. “Good. Hate me.”

Draco tugged Potter and slammed him back into the wall, morbidly enjoying the painful gasp coming out from Potter’s mouth and pressing himself harder to feel the shifts of Potter’s tense muscles against him. “What’re you trying to achieve?” Draco asked, voice still low and slightly above a whisper. “What‘re you trying to get by doing this?”

“Do I have to—” Potter wheezed. “—get something in order to do something?”

Draco slammed Potter’s head again.

“Fuck, Malfoy!”

“No, _you_ don’t fuck with me,” Draco snarled. He wanted to vomit, wanted to kick and punch and tear everything apart. The crisp January air was choking him, and Draco couldn’t see sense amidst all the pink on Potter _and_ his own fringe. “You want to stay near me? You want to work on your potion? Don’t be daft and leave me _the fuck_ alone!”

Potter’s answer a headbutt. Draco yelped and stumbled backward, his grasp loosened from Potter’s collar. Potter didn’t waste his chance. He knocked Draco to the opposite wall, stealing all of Draco’s breath from his lungs, and lunged a punch straight at Draco’s jaw. Draco spat, hands wildly scrambling with Potter’s, yanking Potter’s jumper, while Potter hauled him by the front of his robes. They pushed and pulled, shoved and wrenched each other, until Draco kicked Potter in the shin. Potter staggered, and Draco sent a blow to Potter’s nose. A crack sounded and his glasses flew aside, broken.

Potter seethed and squinted his myopic eyes, blood running down his nose. “Fuck, Malfoy, you madman!” He wiped his nose with the heel of his palm as Draco spit out blood. Fuck. _Fuck_. Potter’s punch had made him bite his own tongue. Then he noticed Potter’s other hand had been ready with a wand. Brilliant, just when Draco didn’t have a proper wand.

It was at that moment that a group of sixth year students strode out of a classroom at the end of the corridor, stopping in their tracks with scandalised expressions as they caught sight of Draco and Potter. The Saviour versus the ex-Death Eater. Right, who wouldn’t want to watch that? Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust. Potter didn’t feel it was a nice idea, though, for he quickly pocketed his wand again.

“Draco.” Astoria was walking slowly towards him from the horde of students, eyes searching back and forth between him and Potter. Draco wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robes, sniffing. But he didn’t miss how Potter’s face had distorted into a frown, his hands clenched at his sides. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” said Draco, still glaring at Potter. “At least I don’t have a broken nose.”

Potter growled. “If I didn’t know better, Malfoy, I would have thought you had a thing for my nose.”

“Very kinky, Potter, I didn’t know if you had it in you,” said Draco dryly. He straightened his robes, all the while glaring at Potter. He touched Astoria’s elbow lightly, gaining her attention and guiding her away from Potter. Astoria merely gave him a calm look, if only her eyes looked sharper, before she simply followed him to take a turn. Vaguely Draco could hear Potter swearing behind him.

He took a deep breath.

“Do you want me to heal your jaw? It might bruise,” Astoria said as they walked further into the dungeons. Some of the Slytherin sixth years were behind them, whispering and keeping a safe distance away from Draco.

“Of course he’ll ruin my face, that barbarian.” Draco rolled his eyes. “But no thanks, I can do it myself. I’m used to it.” He didn’t tell her why he was used to it, though. “So, you have a lesson on Saturday? That sucks.”

“No, it was a self study session,” said Astoria. “And Draco, your hair is pink.”

The rest of his body was pink too, but why did everyone have to point out about his hair? Draco couldn’t help but smile, though. Typical Astoria to discuss that, rather than asking why he fought in a corridor. And hazily, he remembered how different if felt to hear the same sentence from Potter.

He bit back a scowl.

* * *

As it was, the days were a blur to Draco. At first, after their fight, Draco didn’t want to look at Potter anymore, let alone talk. But apparently, Potter had succumbed to his Hufflepuff self and said that he didn’t mean to push Draco and that he knew what Draco was going through was sensitive. Draco felt the surge of something ugly churning in his stomach, but Potter was insistent with his guilt and thus stubbornly stayed with him no matter how cruel Draco was trying to get him to leave. Eventually, Draco gave up and let Potter stalk him everywhere like before.

Valentine’s Day had come, more pink balloons exploded, flying hearts and pink dust contaminated the air, and tiny fairies in their pink shimmering outfits jingled across corridors and the Great Hall. If Draco had thought Valentine’s Days in the past seven years absurd, he certainly didn’t expect this year would be three times more absurd. Birds were chirping love songs above their heads, circling with their wings flapping ceremoniously. Even the House Elves seemed ecstatic to serve pink chocolates, pink puddings and every other pink food for meals. Draco shuddered inside at the unhealthy amount of pink before him.

At breakfast, owls had delivered cards and gifts for each student, and of course the Golden Hero was almost buried alive under the mass of gifts. Singing cards and poems blared from the Gryffindor table, and all the Slytherins snickered at how red Harry Potter’s face was. No doubt, half of those cards were from the Slytherins for the sole purpose of embarrassing Potter. Draco himself found it quite amusing, and temporarily forgot that his own share of Valentine treats this year was reduced by half. The other houses’ students were avoiding him like a plague, and his own housemates were convinced he was taken. Draco didn’t bother to contradict the notion, though.

Lessons went by as usual, with the exception of various pink ornaments hanging here and there, and some of the teachers even entertained the students by letting them work in partners with the ones they liked. Draco sat with Pansy in Charms, knowing full well she would enjoy the privilege as his girlfriend like in fourth and fifth year, if only for merely one lesson. Potter, luckily, didn’t bother him, taking the role as Granger’s partner as Weasel chose to attend Care of Magical Creatures N.E.W.T. rather than Charms. And when the last lessons after supper ended right at eight, seventh and eighth year students filed out of the classrooms like giddy first years. They had got permission to use the Great Hall for a Valentine’s Ball until after midnight—something Draco almost didn’t believe McGonagall would ever permit.

Draco was standing near the spiked Butterbeer fountain, Astoria’s fingers hooked around his elbow, and he looked around the hall blankly. A lot of sixth year students were present because they dated seventh or eighth years, and only a handful of fourth and fifth years could be spotted. Nott was dancing with Pansy, Zabini busy flirting with a fifth year Ravenclaw, and Goyle looked as if he was torn whether to stay beside the giant chocolate cake, or the mountain of muffins on the other table. Then Potter passed by him with an unreadable gaze.

“Hey, Malfoy,” he said flatly, but he was staring at Astoria. From the corner of his eye, Draco could see Astoria’s lips purse slightly. Then Potter shifted his eyes on Draco. “Enjoying the night?”

“Absolutely, as one should be when one has a gorgeous lady for a date,” said Draco smoothly, inclining his head and smiling at Astoria. She looked amused, but otherwise remained silent. “Where’s your date, Potter?”

“Ginny,” said Potter, apparently finding his Butterbeer glass charming. “She’ll be back shortly.” Draco raised an eyebrow and saw Girl Weasley talking with Granger animatedly near the stage. “Or I’ll just, um, go to her.” Potter glanced up at Draco, seemingly waiting for something, but Draco only shot another eyebrow. Potter sighed and nodded at Astoria, before heading towards Girl Weasley. Draco stared in bewilderment.

“Well, isn’t that interesting,” Astoria said.

“Is it?” Draco quickly hid his confusion. “Doesn’t matter, he’s always been touched in the head since, you know, the perils of being a celebrity.” He rolled his eyes as Astoria laughed softly. He tugged one corner of his lips into a half smile. “Would you like to dance?”

“Why, I thought you’d never ask,” said Astoria lightly, but her eyes brightened. It was Draco’s turn to laugh, shaking his head as he led her to the dance floor.

Before midnight, Draco escorted Astoria to the Slytherin common room, as she said she would have to prepare for her Transfiguration project. He didn’t mind, he couldn’t say he enjoyed the ball, after all. Astoria’s smile, her smooth voice, and her occasional sarcastic remarks were endearing, but somehow with the loud music and the presence of other students, the peacefulness he liked in her became hard to reach. Still, the way she swayed elegantly against him and the assurance her laughter gave, were enough to give him calmness.

The night was still young, though, and he didn’t feel like sleeping before all his roommates came back. So he strolled around, watching the portraits interact with each other only to discover that some of them were dating. He wondered, had they been alive in the same era, would they have fallen in love with each other, and what would their original partners think? Maybe things would be different, maybe even change history and there would be no Dark Lord. Or perhaps, there would be a lot more Dark Lords—depended on the changes.

Depressing thought, that was. Draco wanted to kick himself. That was when he saw Potter and Granger arguing outside the Great Hall. Potter’s face was flushed and his hands animatedly waved as he spoke, and Granger kept shaking her head with a distressed expression. Curious, Draco crept closer, nevertheless he didn’t hide.

“Harry, you know that Ron wasn’t really cross at you, it’s just he was worried that Ginny got so drunk.”

“Well, yeah, and that was my fault, wasn’t it? Because I can’t—”

“No! No, Ron was drunk too, it’s just you were Ginny’s date, and Ron hasn’t really been himself since the war . . .”

“Hermione, no one is themselves since the war!”

“I know!” Granger sounded far too exasperated, running her hand through her hair only to realise there were flowers pinned there. She tugged harshly at them and crushed them with a trembling fist. “I know, and that’s why we shouldn’t be like—like this.” Her voice shook. “Harry, tell me, what’s bothering you? You’re just hanging around Malfoy, and skipping classes, and being a prat all the time—”

“Why am I a prat—”

“Oh please, Harry, your temper is worse than fourth year,” she screamed. Potter’s eyes widened in shock. “And—and you ask me about things, but you never want to tell me what it’s about, who it’s about, how can you expect me to think that everything is fine?”

Potter was silent, but somehow, his heavy breathing reached Draco’s ears. Or maybe it was just an effect from seeing his chest wildly heaving.

“I can’t tell you,” said Potter in a much calmer voice, but he refused to look at Granger.

“It isn’t like I can’t guess, Harry,” said Granger softly. “It’s just I want to hear it from you.”

Potter didn’t answer. Eventually, Granger sighed, her lips trembling. She looked ready to say something more, but decided to shut her mouth again, and spun in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. Potter closed his eyes, his jaw tensed, and his hand touched his forehead. Belatedly, Draco realised that it was the _scar_.

Draco continued walking, this time he let his steps echo heavier and saw Potter snap his eyes open.

“Enjoying the night?” Draco drawled.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” said Potter, but it lacked real malice. Draco shrugged.

“You really should stop hanging around me, you know. We don’t want to give your precious friends the wrong idea.”

“And if I said I don’t want to stop?” Potter’s eyes were alight with challenge.

“Suit yourself,” said Draco. “They’re not my friends.”

Potter closed his eyes again, his expression tired and resigned. Then he smiled wearily. “Want to go outside?”

Draco frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s freezing out there.”

“Says someone who rode a broom in winter without his gloves and scarf.” Potter rolled his eyes. As Draco merely shrugged again, Potter’s hand fished out a tiny bottle from his robe pocket. “Come on, I’ve got Firewhiskey.” He grinned.

“Very clever, Potter.” Draco laughed. For a moment, Potter looked stunned. Draco cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well then, if you insist,” he said.

They traversed Hogwarts’ corridors in silence. Sometimes their shoulders brushed lightly as Potter teetered in his walk. His eyes were glazed, but the wrinkles on his forehead showed his determination, causing Draco to swallow any sarcasm. Pursing his lips in thought, Draco kept sending sidelong glances at Potter, and Potter didn’t even notice. After the silence had gone on too long and they had reached the moonlit Quidditch pitch, Draco sighed. “You’re pissed. Why bother to drink again when you’re already this pissed?”

“I want to have a drink.” Potter swaggered to the bench. “With you.”

Draco gave a humourless laugh as Potter heavily sat. “This is getting creepy.”

“What is?”

“You. Towards me,” said Draco, shaking his head incredulously, yet he took a seat next to Potter nonetheless. “I should have told my eleven year old self that in another seven years Harry Potter would have a crush on him.”

“Eleven year old. Why eleven?” asked Potter, already working on unshrinking the bottle of Firewhiskey.

“Because my eleven year old self was wounded by you.”

“Oh?” Potter’s eyes were big and honest. “How so?”

Draco scrunched his nose in disbelief. “Figured you wouldn’t remember. Well, never mind. You’re falling for me, and that’s embarrassing enough for you.”

“Embarrassing . . .” Potter trailed off as if he didn’t understand the meaning. “Falling for you, I’m falling for you.”

“That’s what I said,” Draco snapped, snatching the bottle from Potter’s hand to unclasp it. He took a swig and exhaled slowly. His breath came out in white mist, and he quickly remembered to cast a Warming Charm. Potter followed, then took back the bottle.

“Am I falling for you?” he asked after a large gulp.

“No, no, I should hope not.” Draco feigned a shudder. “I pray your pathetic crush on me will wither spectacularly.”

Potter snorted. “If it didn’t wither after all of your dirty stunts so far, I doubt it will any time soon.”

“That’s because you’re a masochistic freak.” Draco glared, taking another swig. Potter snickered shamelessly.

They continued spitting insults back and forth, taking turns in draining the bottle, until Draco realised, with unfocused eyes and warm cheeks, that the bottle had been charmed. “Bloody hell, Potter, are you planning to kill us with alcohol poisoning? Spelling a bottle of alcohol to make it never empty is a crime!”

“I thought it was a genius idea,” Potter said cheerfully. Draco frowned, taking a gulp, then shrugged.

“It _is_. Ten points for Gryffindor.”

“Er.” Potter blinked, alarmed. “That shows how pissed you are.”

And Draco let out a horrible sound that was too close to _giggling_. Blinking several times more, Potter burst into giggles as well, clutching at his side and leaning heavily against Draco’s right arm. When they had to stop because the need to breathe became urgent, Potter laid his head on Draco’s shoulder, his left side practically on top of Draco’s right. The warmth that was emanating from the proximity made Draco dizzy.

“You know,” Potter said after a few deep breaths, “I like hearing your laughter.” Draco’s shoulders tensed, and Potter must have sensed it, for he quickly turned to see Draco, face so close that their noses would touch if Draco just dipped his head a little. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you or anything, but . . .” Potter trailed off, his eyes sliding lower, as Draco belatedly realised that Potter was watching his lips.

“What?” asked Draco, his voice came out hoarse and low despite his effort to appear casual. “What?”

Now Potter stared into his eyes, searching. “Tell me, Malfoy.” His tongue swiped over his lower lip, leaving a glint of saliva under the moonlight. “Are you with Astoria?”

Draco swallowed. His stomach became suddenly warm. “Greengrass. You don’t know her well enough to use her first name.”

“Are you with _Astoria_?”

Trust Potter to disregard decency and Draco’s words. Draco was too overwhelmed by the heat and the dizziness inside his head, though, and before he could stop himself, he said, “No, I’m not.” And that was all it took for Harry Potter to pull him into a kiss.

Draco liked the way Potter’s lips moved against his, and the way they opened up under his tongue. Potter’s hands felt right as they threaded through Draco’s hair. His tongue was hesitant and awkward, yet Draco’s was, too. Potter’s glasses would leave marks on Draco’s cheek, but Draco didn’t care—he wrapped his arm around Potter’s waist, pulling him to sit on Draco’s lap. No resistance, no protests. Draco pressed himself closer.

Then it all ended just as fast as it started. The Firewhiskey bottle tumbled off the bench, its liquid forming an endless pool as it burned the snow. Snapping out of the daze, Draco pushed Potter’s chest roughly, sending him to land on his back in a graceless thump.

“Bloody hell! What—”

“Fuck.” Draco ran a hand over his face, eyes widened in horror. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”

Potter’s eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t think we’ll fuck after you just fucking shoved me.”

“ _Fuck_ , Potter!” Draco snarled, his hands trembling as he rose to his feet. “Just shut up. Oh, fuck.” His own voice sounded alien in his ears—so frightened, wavering and cracking.

_Frightened?_

Draco swore again, again and again, clenching his hands to stop the tremor. In his peripheral, he could see Potter’s expression shifting from anger to worry, but Draco couldn’t be arsed to care.

Spinning around, he tried to make his way into the castle as fast as his wasted body would allow. Hazily, in between his best effort to ignore the thumping headache, he heard the sounds of Potter following him. Once he had crossed half of the way to the dungeons, however, Potter’s footsteps stalled.

Draco didn’t hear anything else until he reached the dormitory.

* * *

In nearly eight years of knowing Harry Potter, Draco had never had a single pleasant moment with the git. He had humiliated Draco even before they were officially students at Hogwarts, had made all Draco’s brilliant plans fail, had almost killed him with a single spell, and ironically, had also saved his life. But none of those things were supposed to matter anymore—Draco had fallen into the deepest of every low thing imaginable, so he shouldn’t care what Potter did to him. But he did, and Draco knew it was the start of a new torture.

Draco didn’t know who was avoiding who. Potter was subdued in Potions, whilst Draco tried to convince himself that staring more intently at the cauldron would increase the success rate of their Felix Felicis variation. Charms was better. Pansy and Granger being a nice distraction, though Draco prayed to any Deity that Pansy wouldn’t ask even if she noticed something different with him. But McGonagall was less cooperative.

After nearly five months, she decided to combine all the seventh and eighth year Transfiguration N.E.W.T. students into one big class and assigned them to work in groups of four. Given his luck, of course Draco just had to be partnered with Potter, Longbottom and the Hufflepuff prat, Smith. On top of it all, there were still those reports for McGonagall. Draco could sense her scrutiny crawling on his skin, and he longed to shout in her face. But he didn’t—not if she still kept her mouth shut.

As the middle of March slowly approached and the scent of spring had forced the freezing winter to melt into submission, Potter had begun to start talking to him again. They were only little, mundane things like Quidditch and the weather, but they no longer tried to ignore each other’s existence. Still, every time Potter tentatively tried to warm up, Draco would remember that night, that body heat, that soft tongue and moans, and he would flinch. Potter, despite being famous for his insensitivity, caught the hints and recoiled. He went back to being subdued, until the next time he tried to reach out again.

By the end of March, on a Hogsmeade weekend, Draco finally decided to go after having repeatedly declined Pansy’s invitations for the previous trips. He wondered if he should invite Astoria along since the Easter holidays were coming up, but then he remembered Pansy’s visible dislike of her and shrugged the idea off. Goyle was coming, though, so it wasn’t a date.

It was quite refreshing, Draco had to admit. After months of being cooped up in the castle without a break, even drinking tea from a pink tea cup in Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop was nice. Not that he would admit it out loud.

Pansy was beaming, telling him how she had missed going to Hogsmeade with him, because Blaise never stopped flirting with other students, and Nott, in spite of his intelligence, was worse than Potter when it came to stringing words together into a sentence. She gave Goyle dirty looks once in a while, unquestionably annoyed at his presence, though Goyle being Goyle, he only cared about the cakes. After chattering almost nonstop for two hours, at last Pansy noticed that Draco had stopped listening at all. Actually, he had tuned her out right after she finished telling him the first story, but she didn’t need to know.

“So, tell me, Draco,” she said, a bit annoyed that he had almost dozed off. “How’re things going with Potter?”

Draco choked on his tea. “Er, what.”

Brilliant. Draco had just fallen to Potter’s level of fluency. Or maybe even Nott’s.

“Potter? Harry Potter?” Goyle stopped shoving cakes onto his face. Pansy sighed wearily.

“Yes, that Potter. And Draco, where do you think you’re going?” She shot him a look as he scrambled to stand, his chair screeching a little louder than necessary.

“I just remembered I have an appointment,” he said mildly, trying to sound nonchalant and hoping his expression was blank enough. Pansy’s eyebrows tweaked in suspicion.

“With Potter?”

“Don’t be ludicrous, Pansy,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’d rather die than have a date with Potter.” He turned to Goyle who looked like he would rather die than leave his cakes. “And you can stay, Goyle.”

Goyle was beaming, but Pansy huffed in irritation. “Watch it, Draco. Don’t say what you don’t mean.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.” Shrugging, Draco headed to the door and tried to breathe calmly. Girls, why were they always so sharp?

Rushing alone along the path back to Hogwarts, Draco tried to empty his mind. But Potter was always there, laughing with glazed eyes and flushed cheeks, with his warm breath and soft lips. Even the way Potter settled on his lap had felt right. Draco swore vehemently. Was he that frustrated? Was it because he had practically gone celibate since the beginning of sixth year and now his hormones were catching up? But even Draco knew that libido had nothing to do with the way he wanted to snap his quill every time he saw Potter recoil from him.

Shaking his head, Draco rubbed his nose, passing Hogwarts’ main gate. He made his way through the entrance and walked aimlessly, anxiously trying to dismiss every sickening thought about Potter. He wanted to see Astoria, wanted to hold her hands and listen to her talk about making amends in weird, roundabout ways. He wanted to take her to the Astronomy Tower, watching her glowing with every word she said. But instead, he saw Potter.

Draco stopped dead in his tracks, holding his breath. Potter was looking morose, the circles under his eyes now more visible than ever. He paced around, deep in thought, not in the slightest bit aware of Draco’s presence. After a while, he messed his hair, doing it no favours in Draco’s eyes, and then climbed the stairs two at a time. Draco considered this, narrowing his eyes, and as Potter had started on the second flight of stairs, Draco silently followed him. He cast a spell so his shoes wouldn’t make noise, wishing not for the first time in his life to have that blasted Invisibility Cloak Potter owned.

Potter kept mounting the stairs—Draco realised where Potter was going. He was right. Potter was making his way through the Owlery door. Something wasn’t right, though. Draco remembered months ago when Potter was pacing in front of the Owlery, and now Potter was looking like that again—only worse. Slipping inside, Draco kept his breathing as silent as possible, trying to catch whatever Potter was doing. But the thing he saw made his stomach cold.

Potter was talking slowly, handing an envelope to an eagle owl. Narcissa Malfoy’s eagle owl.

Suddenly everything clicked. Every why and what and how were answered. The puzzle that had been driving him insane was now fully solved, and the final image it revealed was an ugly, mocking picture of what he believed was his own fucking _life_.

Seeing red, Draco was shaking with rage. He stomped towards Potter, grabbed the thin arm roughly and punched him. Potter was caught by surprise, eyes wide and mouth hung open. He tumbled backwards, sending a number of owls flying wildly around the room, feathers floated like dry leaves in autumn. Draco’s breathing was frantic, but he clenched his fists until they burned, struggling to stand and not fall like a useless, trembling coward.

“Happy about having me on, aren’t you?” he said, his voice the very picture of his whole body—filled with tremor and fury. “Are you that desperate, Potter? You need someone to save that badly that you’re willing to spy on me for my mother?”

Potter looked like someone had just kicked him in the guts. “Malfoy—”

“That’s it, right? Your problem is you’re so used to being a hero that now the war is over you’re lost.” Draco was a fraction closer to shouting. “You don’t know how to live if you don’t have to save someone anymore!”

Draco couldn’t hear Potter’s breathing in between his own loud, shuddering one, but he could see Potter’s chest pumping rapidly and his nostrils flared. Draco laughed, taut and dry.

“You’re mental,” he said, breathless. His laughter didn’t end nonetheless. “Everyone’s rejoicing in freedom, but you.” He thrust a forefinger in Potter’s face. “You want everyone to be still living in terror.”

Potter took a step towards him, jaw set and eyes flashed with anger, but Draco hissed, “Don’t come near me. Don’t you dare.”

“I don’t _want_ everyone to live in terror,” Potter said, spitting each word with venom. “You don’t know what I went through in the war, you don’t—”

Draco laughed again, louder. Potter flinched visibly.

“Yes, yes, you want it. Deep down you’re still hoping to be useful, aren’t you? Now the war is over, no one expects you to do anything ever again. You’re _used_. You’re _discarded_. You can’t do anything else now, because saving people is the only thing that you’re fit for. You’re mental, Potter, you’re looking for new victims every day. You’re looking for _me_.”

Potter looked pinched, his lips giving a violent tremor.

“Oh, look! Poor Draco Malfoy! He doesn’t have money, he doesn’t even have a fucking wand! He’s bullied and looked down, and can’t feel anything because he’s wrecked! He needs saving! He’s so pitiful—”

“ _Malfoy_!”

Draco kicked the wall, sending more feathers bustling around them. “Shut up, Potter!” He glared, looking straight into Potter’s eyes, and found something he could barely recognise in there. Guilt. It was _guilt_. “Shut up and don’t ever talk to me again,” he hissed.

Potter looked like he was going to say something, but Draco didn’t want to hear it— _couldn’t_ hear it. His ears were ringing, something was gnawing him from the inside, and he couldn’t breathe. Potter felt guilty, he felt guilty because Draco was _right_.

Shaking his head, Draco took steps backward, tasting blood as he bit the inside of his lower lip too hard. Potter was staring at him, closing his mouth and _only staring_ at him. Turning around, Draco walked out of the Owlery, his pace becoming faster with each step. As he descended the stairs, he felt rather than heard his own sobs, wiping the corner of his eyes with the heel of his palm. Fucking Potter. He should die a terrible death. He should burn in hell.

Except Draco didn’t want him to die.

He broke into the bathroom as he arrived on the third floor, banging the cubicle door open. He collapsed onto his knees and vomited.

 _It fucking hurts._ Draco sobbed harder, _fucking hurts, fucking hurts, fucking Potter . . . ._

That day, Draco’s mantra didn’t work. The hole in his chest wouldn’t close, and he wished he really had died that night when he fell off his broom.

* * *

At King’s Cross Station, Draco stood amidst the sea of students laughing and chatting with their families. It wasn’t surprising that no one had come to pick him up—he knew his father was busy trying to survive in the Ministry, and his mother was probably coaxing her colleagues into helping her with subtle threats. Still, for the first four years of Hogwarts, his father had always come for him, patting his shoulder in acknowledgement, and that was always enough to make Draco grin with stupid pride. The next two years, his mother had hugged him once he stepped onto the platform, murmuring soft welcome greetings that nearly made Draco suffocate with remembering what had happened to his father, and what he had gone through in those blasted years.

Now, he had no one.

He swallowed, sniffing and forcing himself to ignore the pressure in his chest. Taking a shuddering breath, he tugged on his trunk, searching for a perfect spot to Apparate. Deep inside, he was beginning to regret his decision to cancel all the Optional Easter Holiday Classes at the last minute. He didn’t want to go back to the Manor, didn’t want to meet his father, let alone his mother after . . . 

Sniffing again, he rubbed his nose and blinked the moisture in his eyes away. It was a hard choice, but between his own home, parents and Potter, he chose to stay away from Potter. The betrayal was still fresh in his mind, and the wound was gaping. Draco wanted to laugh. He had thought, after he realised he had changed that morning before Hogwarts, that he could live his life better without anyone’s influence. Clearly he had been mistaken, because there was no such a thing as his own life. He did not have the privilege of having his own fucking life. He was born as a puppet, and would be one until he died.

Arriving at the Manor gates with a loud _crack_ , Draco slipped inside as soon as they opened up for him. Slowly he padded along the lane towards the main entrance, his trunk in tow. By the grand front door stood his mother, looking as elegant as ever, yet the hollows in her cheeks spoke more than words could ever describe. Draco paused, watching her mother watch him calmly, and he was lost in the swirl of his own emotions.

 _Pathetic, look how much emotion can weaken you_ , he thought bitterly.

“Draco,” his mother said, her tone quiet yet melodious. She spread her arms open in invitation. Draco stepped up hesitantly, swallowed, and gave up. Embracing his mother with an arm, Draco took a deep breath.

“Hello, Mother.”

“Come, Draco,” said his mother as she slid her palm along Draco’s back in reassurance. “Your father is in the parlour.”

That was new, Draco noted. He followed his mother traversing the main hall and across the dimly lit corridors. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, not ready for the wave of sensations that was barraging him from every nook and cranny of his own house. The shadows were still there, dancing and mocking his sanity. He cursed Potter for this mess, and once again wished desperately he could hide behind the thick barrier of having no emotions. But it was futile.

As the door to the parlour swung open, Draco could immediately smell the saccharine aroma of tea and cakes. His father looked up from his tea, a _Daily Prophet_ in his other hand.

“Hello, Father. How are you?”

His father nodded, and for the first time since the war was over, Draco really _heard_ his father’s voice.

“Draco.”

Only a word, short and firm. But it carried _a lot_. Draco missed him, the father he always looked up to, whose simple pat could make him stupidly happy, whose acknowledgement had always been the one he was searching for, whom after the war and until just now, Draco had tried to avoid for foolish reasons. Exhaling slowly, Draco set his jaw, determined not to break over the simple greeting.

“I’m fine, Father,” he said, answering the unsaid question. “Fine.”

Later in his room, once he could put away the fragile façade he knew was futile in front of his parents, Draco allowed himself to tremble in his bed, fighting the urge to empty his stomach and failed.

* * *

Days in the Manor were slow and haunting. Draco tried to utilize the time to get used to the overwhelming feelings he had locked away for so long, tried to rehabilitate himself with the help of limited sources of meditation and books. But while Draco used to be a good enough Occlument, now his control over emotions was broken, making meditation hard to achieve. Maybe he really was that wrecked. Maybe it wasn’t Potter’s fault that he found Draco to be a perfect damsel in distress.

His mother never brought up her connection with Potter, and Draco was thankful for it. If possible, he refused to hear anything about Potter. But the lingering stares were there, full of questions and worries, albeit in the distant sort of way his mother preferred. Draco spent his time mostly locked in his room or in the library, trying his hardest to stay away from family dinners or any other gatherings whenever he could. After a week, at last, his mother told him to meet her and his father in the drawing room.

It was the one room Draco had always evaded, the room where the gruesome images of war were the freshest. Draco was certain his parents knew, but because of that, too, he understood the urgency of this order—the importance of the reasons behind it.

As they all settled down against the cushions, Draco strived to focus on his breathing— _inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale_ —and to steer clear of any unwanted scenes that were threatening to happen. His father looked at his mother over the rim of his teacup, and his mother smiled wanly at Draco.

“Draco, the holiday is almost over. Tell us about your days at Hogwarts.”

Draco’s grip on his teacup tensed.

“As you already knew, Draco, I’m in correspondence with Mr Potter,” his mother continued, her expression never wavering. “He’s kind enough to provide me with information about your condition.”

“Isn’t that lovely, Mother, you have a good little spy,” Draco said dryly, sensing the much feared nausea that had started coiling in the bottom of his stomach. “But rest assured, I’m fine now.”

“Are you certain, Draco?” His father’s voice was smooth, but it had that sharp edge that always challenged Draco to speak the truth, or be ready for the consequences. Draco clenched his teeth.

“Yes, Father, I am.”

“Then enlighten me, son, why have you made vomiting after meals a new habit? And one, as you must know well, that is unworthy of a Malfoy.”

Taking a deep breath in resignation, Draco bit his lower lip. The teacup rattled on the saucer as he put it on the table. His mother’s left eye twitched at the plebeian display, no doubt. But Draco couldn’t care less.

Was he really this inadequate at keeping his private problems private?

“We have noticed it happens very frequently, and that is something Mr Potter never told me,” said his mother.

“Of course, Mother,” Draco said. “Potter wouldn’t know the things that happened after . . .” He trailed off.

“After you found out,” said his mother. Draco nodded quietly. His mother stared at him, exchanging glances with his father, then back at him. Unexpectedly, she only said, “We understand.” Draco stared at her in disbelief.

The silence that followed was horrible, as his parents kept staring back at him with the air of eerie composure. Draco could feel that despite the warm late spring air, socks and shoes, his feet were still freezing. His palms were damp, and he struggled to keep himself from wiping them against his trousers. He even guessed that there must be sweat on his forehead.

“Draco, we’re selling the Manor.”

At first, Draco thought he must have gone deaf as a result of the enormous number of panic attacks he had lately endured, but perhaps delusional was the more perfect way to describe his state. There was no way that his mother would say . . .

“We can’t afford the upkeep. The Manor requires more than average attention, and we need the money to—”

“Father?” Draco snapped his face to his father, breathless and wide eyed, cutting his mother mid-sentence. “Tell me Mother’s joking.”

“Malfoys, Draco, do what is necessary to continue living. No matter how hard it is,” his father said. His expression betrayed nothing, but it was impossible—Draco knew it was impossible his father didn’t feel anything. The Manor was . . . .

It was their _everything_.

“I don’t believe it.”

“As long as we have the name, the Malfoys will not cease.”

“You’re making it up.”

“No, we’re not.” His father’s tone was final. Draco dug his nails into his palms. How much more humiliating could it get? The centuries of history of the great Malfoys, the grand proof of their prominence, it all collapsed under _their_ generation.

“We are of a great breed,” his father went on, “we will reach the same eminence as long as we can keep our line alive. And that, Draco, is the Malfoy Pride. To always survive in every—”

“But what is _pride_?” Draco asked, his voice raw and harsh. He knew his father was making excuses, he knew his mother was not that different. What kind of pride did the Malfoys have now? The way his father kept bringing up how it was something noble for a Malfoy to do just that—to give up their identity, and to just keep bringing up ‘Malfoys this and Malfoys that’, showed just how desperate his father was to cover his shame.

Still, it was _absurd_.

“Draco—”

“No, you can’t just give it up! You mustn’t, after all you did—after—” Draco’s voice broke, and he was now standing rigid on his feet. “I—I thought no matter how low we’ve fallen, we can still—we can, maybe—” He blinked a tear away but it still escaped, rolling slowly on his cheek. But the thing that made him abort his speech was not the tear. It was the shocking fact that despite believing he couldn’t fall any lower, couldn’t lose anything else, he was actually still _hoping_.

“Draco.” His mother stood and circled the table, gently cradling his face with her palms. “We have to let go.”

“Mother!”

“ _Draco_.” His mother’s voice was stern, the kind of stern he used to hear all the time when he was a child and did silly things. The hands on his cheeks were trapping him, but his eyes were shifting wildly back and forth, between his mother’s set expression and his father’s vacant one, the mask he always wore to hide his deepest weaknesses, and for the first time, Draco’s admiration for his father burnt away. After all, his father was human, and perhaps he shouldn’t be admiring him for what he tried to build. Perhaps, he should be caring for him for who he _was_.

“Draco,” said his mother once more, calling for his undivided attention. “What you haven’t done, Draco, is to accept.” One of her hands freed his cheek, sliding lower to rest on his chest. “And let go.”

Draco looked at her incredulously, breathing from his mouth and tried hard not to run outside like a seven year old. He took his mother’s hands off him, shaking his head slowly. What should he accept? He had done everything but the world still hated him, didn’t it?

“No. I don’t understand—I can’t . . . .”

That was a lie, of course. Logically, it was understandable that his parents needed the money to keep on living. And besides, didn’t he always write to McGonagall that his purpose was just that? But somehow, that was different. This was . . . .

_Their Manor._

“I’m sorry, but . . . .” He swallowed. “This is absurd, you _are_ absurd,” he finished his sentence, staring bitterly at both of his parents. They were engaged in a silent conversation, as though mourning the fact that their only heir had just lost his marbles. But Draco couldn’t bring himself to care.

Praying that his legs wouldn’t fail him until he reached his room, he spun around towards the door, and broke into a run as soon as the door was closed behind him.

* * *

The last week of the Easter holidays was the worst. Draco couldn’t get his mother’s words out of his head, and he spent all the time contemplating what they meant. After that night, he had repeatedly said to himself that there was nothing he could do, thence he had actually accepted everything. But his condition was deteriorating, and his head ached as though he was suffering the consequence of having heard a Banshee wailing for twenty four hours straight.

He kept to himself even more, dreaming and screaming and suffocating at night. Throwing up after meals was no longer possible to hide—he was even more reluctant to touch food. Once, his mother gently probed him to get professional help and assured him that they still could afford to pay a Healer, while his father restrained from commenting. But Draco ignored them.

On the last day of the holiday, when he was too exhausted to even cry, Draco gave up. He knew it would be the last time he would see the Manor before he went to Hogwarts, so after he packed his trunk, he walked to the back garden, the far closed area that even Death Eaters didn’t know. There was not a single flower nor was there a green leaf, but Draco stood still for what seemed like hours there, recalling how on top of that dark soil, grew the prettiest flowers of all kinds years ago. Attached to the branch of a huge tree in the middle was his swing, where he spent much of his childhood playing and laughing with his mother.

He slid his fingers over the dead tree’s bark, and now could actually see the vision of his childhood more easily. In between the sweet scents, he ran and fell at that particular spot where peonies danced to his mother’s magical melody. Then near the lilies, there was a slender but tall tree he didn’t know the name of, where he and his mother used to mark his height every month. He smiled slightly at the memories, and unconsciously walked around to recollect more and more of them.

Eventually, he ambled out of the back garden, circling around the building and sweeping his eyes over every corner of the Manor’s path, the statues, the grand fountain, the pillars. He used to fly in the front garden, laughing merrily as he watched his father’s peacocks hounding their victims, mostly lowly guards or his fathers’ guests. He loved to sit near the fountain when he was sulking, listening to the soft sounds of water sliding down, as though it tried to cheer him up. He loved to hide behind the dragon statue whenever he played hide and seek with Goyle, Crabbe and Pansy. And he loved to gallop through the main door every time he heard his father’s heavy footsteps, after stubbornly waiting for him to return from work.

Inside the Manor, he remembered his wild magic broke several frames of portraits in the entrance hall once, and he was terrified by the wrath of his grandfather Abraxas Malfoy’s portrait. In the halls, he learned to walk as silently as possible in order to gain the Malfoy’s refinement, despite wanting only to skip or run noisily. He often played pranks on the House Elves in the kitchen, only to be captured by his father because Goyle and Crabbe wouldn’t leave the food alone. The parlour was where his Mother often served her guests, while Draco preened with compliments about how sweet he was as a child. And then the drawing room . . . .

He loved to spend his time there with his parents. They would all drink tea, talk about mundane things and basically be a family. He liked to bring books from his father’s library and read them there while his father talked with his mother. Sometimes he just fell asleep there, and woke up in his bed. He was a spoiled kid, and now that he thought about it, his life was perfect with a composed mother and superior father.

But that was before the war.

The bright reminiscence of his childhood changed into dark, sickening images of torture and killings and the horrible laughter of Death Eaters. All the light went from his view, replaced by blood, gore and the way Professor Charity Burbage twisted in the air as a green light shot through her. Draco squeezed his eyes closed, helplessly working on emptying his mind. As he opened his eyes again, he could see his ten year old self sitting on an armchair, a teacup in hand as he glanced every so often at his father, trying to copy every movement. Then it distorted into a huge slimy snake hissing and sliding along the feet of masked wizards and witches, howling Muggles writhing on the floor. Just as fast as it came, it vanished into his own self laughing with Pansy, as he tried to kiss her in the summer before their fourth year.

And it blinked, blinked, blinked, darkness and light, music and screams, until finally all he could see was the emptiness of the room before him. Dusty, old and bland, save for the three cushions and a small square table in the middle. An abandoned place.

Exhausted, Draco dragged his feet towards his bedroom, all the while taking in every spider web present in the hallways just like he did before he went to Hogwarts. But now, he didn’t see it as a sign of shame or failure. It was simply the proof his existence. A matter of fact statement of what he had been through—before, during and after the war.

Dropping his back onto the bed, he pressed his arm over his eyes, thinking only about breathing.

He finally understood. He had accepted it.

He just needed to let go.

* * *

At the start of summer term Draco decided to actually ask for help. Going to St. Mungo’s, as Madam Pomfrey suggested when he told her about his difficulties in digesting food, was not the thing he had in mind, though. He just needed a little more time, he explained, and he was positive he was recovering—his body was just still suffering from the after-effect. After all, human bodies weren’t made for healing damage by themselves. Moreover with the N.E.W.T.s just before him, he couldn’t afford the time for examinations at St. Mungo’s. Especially not when he already knew what his problem was.

In the end, he managed to convince her to give him potions to drink before each meal, to help his alimentary canal work normally. The only problem was just that contrary to its purpose, the taste of the potion was vile, although it worked wonders. He was able to swallow and keep the food down. It was slow progress, and he still didn’t have his normal appetite, but at least it was still progress. On top of that, he continued to meditate before sleeping to bring balance to his still erratic emotions.

The most surprising moment after he was back at Hogwarts, however, came from Goyle. After days watching Draco manage to eat, Goyle stared at him oddly, and then let out something that was close to a smile.

“I’ll give you one of my muffins.”

Draco sent him a horrified glance. “What?”

Goyle looked wistful as he scooped up the small chocolate chip muffin from on top of maybe twenty others, but he shoved it onto Draco’s plate and grinned. “Hogwarts has the best muffins.”

Draco was just about to say that he didn’t need food recommendations mainly because he had been at Hogwarts just as long as Goyle had, but he paused midway and closed his mouth again. It finally struck him that . . . all this time Goyle was just worried in a very Goyle way.

Draco wondered if he actually wasn’t as perceptive as he liked to believe.

It was kind of nice actually. Furthermore, now that Draco no longer had the convenience of hiding behind the shields, he was more aware of the glares and mocking from other houses’ students. Like when he wanted to go to the library and couldn’t avoid the group of Ravenclaw brats. The boiling rage was almost uncontrollable when he remembered what they said about his parents. For that reason, he was thankful Goyle was more than happy to eliminate every threat that was coming his way _and_ from him.

Still, he could no longer go to the Astronomy Tower.

“I can’t right now,” he said when Astoria asked if he wanted to help her fold more paper birds. “But when I get over—I mean, no, I can’t promise when, but . . . .”

Astoria didn’t question him. Draco couldn’t ask for a better girl, really. He wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing the crown of her head, enjoying the gentle waft of jasmine and citrus. She patted his back once, twice, then softly, “I’ve almost finished the drawing. Would you like to see?”

Draco closed his eyes, inhaling the sweetness that was Astoria for the last time, and released her. “Show me,” he said, smiling. The way she brightened up was such that he almost regretted his much thought about decision. Maybe he hadn’t thought about it long enough—

“Why don’t you charm these?” he asked her after he shuffled through sketches and sketches of Hogwarts castle. Astoria pursed her lips as she leaned back onto the corridor’s wall.

“I don’t want them to move. I want them to be precisely like that. For memories.”

“Hmm.” He nodded, then stared at her more closely. Her lips looked thin and soft and he supposed if he wanted to kiss her, she might let him. Instead he asked, “Astoria Greengrass, do you know you’re perfect?”

“For you or to you?” She blinked.

“Both I guess,” Draco said, nodding twice to prove his point. “I think it’d be easy if we were together.”

Astoria laughed, smoothing the front of her robes. “Perfect because it’d be easy?”

“That’s what most people want, isn’t it?”

Smiling sadly, Astoria shook her head. “But you’re not one of those people.”

Draco smiled back. “Not anymore.”

Astoria nodded and then took her sketches, fingers lingering on top of Draco’s for a moment. “It’s all right, Draco. It’s all right.”

As always, Draco wanted to cling to her words, taking everything he wanted from her mere presence, and he was afraid that the dreaded regret might have started creeping inside. But for once Astoria was wrong. It wasn’t all right. Not when he decided to leave behind someone as wonderful as she was. But he remained still, knowing better than to hide all over again, and said, “I know. You’re always right.”

Her smile was so beautiful it hurt to see.

The next night at the end of April, Draco rested his head on Pansy’s lap, counting the number of torches in the common room absently. Pansy’s fingers floated lazily in his hair, her humming was soft and familiar. Draco thought of kissing Astoria, then thought of kissing Pansy. Both were delicious and soft and all curves under his fingers.

“Potter wants to talk to me,” he said.

Pansy’s fingers paused for a brief moment. “Oh? Did something happen? I thought I saw you both ignore each other in Potions and Transfiguration.”

“That’s the problem,” said Draco. He thought of strength and anger and sharp angles. “I think I’m doomed.”

“Interesting, Draco, I never knew you were scared to talk to Potter.”

He laughed, laughed and laughed, until she slapped his forehead.

“Explain yourself.” She glared.

“The thing is,” Draco wheezed, “I want to take my words back.”

Pansy’s eyebrows rose so high. “What words?”

“At Madam Puddifoot’s.”

Silence, and then, “Merlin, Draco,” she gasped, horrified.

“I know.” He thought of the wet, brave kiss, the dull pain of that metal frame digging into his skin, the low moans that sounded too masculine, and was certain those were what he wanted. “I’m doomed.”

“You _are_.” Pansy nodded, the corners of her lips tugged into a smirk. “Thankfully I’m used to seeing you in your doom.”

Draco laughed again, slapping his hand on Pansy’s forehead as she shrieked in protest.

* * *

The light from Draco’s _Lumos_ swayed as he shifted his position on the tiles. Potter dragged himself nearer, all the while staring at the empty golden frame, his own _Lumos_ making his shadow dance across it as he moved. If Draco were honest, there were better places for them to talk, but Potter only asked him to come with him, a painful plea in his eyes, and pulled him to sit in the same alcove they had occupied on Christmas Eve. Draco pursed his lips in contemplation.

“I should take points from Gryffindor, you know. For disobeying the curfew.”

“I don’t care,” Potter said, shrugging.

“How selfish you are.”

“I am, I always am.”

“You’re kidding,” said Draco sceptically. “There’s no one more selfless than the Saviour of Wizarding World.”

Smiling wistfully, Potter shook his head. “You’d be surprised.”

“Give me a name.”

Potter looked up, appearing to study the cracks on the opposite wall. Draco noted that maybe this part had been overlooked when they reconstructed the place. “Snape,” said Potter after a moment of silence.

“Pardon?”

“Professor Snape.” Potter smirked, yet it didn’t reach his eyes. “Your mum, too.”

“My mother and Professor Snape?” Draco asked edgily. “Are you really Harry Potter?” He paused, thinking. “But you were willing to be a good little spy for my mother.”

Running a hand through his hair, Potter sighed. Draco wondered why his fingers weren’t stuck in that rat’s nest. “You know, that’s why I said I’m selfish, and that your mother isn’t.”

“Elaborate,” Draco snapped. “You really aren’t as mysterious as you imagine.”

Rolling his eyes, Potter leaned back, his shoulder brushing against Draco’s. “Snape was doing everything he could in the war because he loved my mum. And your mum did everything—because she loves _you_. While I only cared about what I should do now that the war is over. Just like you said.” He stared up, shrugging. “That’s why I’m selfish.”

Ouch. Despite already knowing, it still stung.

“I still don’t understand. What did my mother do?” he asked instead.

“She lied to Voldemort—” Potter seemed to notice Draco flinch. “—she said I was dead. She saved my life. If it wasn’t for her . . .”

“She saved _you_?” Now Draco wasn’t sure if that was his own voice or a Banshee’s. “She _lied_ to the Dark—” He gulped. “Merlin . . . .”

“She did it because she didn’t want you to die.”

“She could have been killed!”

Potter laughed dryly. “Is that really so hard to believe? You lied to save me, too.”

Draco stared for a long time, dubious. “Whatever are you talking about, Potter?”

“You know, at Malfoy Manor—”

“I didn’t do anything.” Draco sneered. “It was only one lie. It wasn’t like jumping into a fire or anything.”

Potter laughed, his expression didn’t match, though. His eyes were sad and shadowed. “A year ago, I might agree.” Picking up the loose thread on the hem of his jumper, he exhaled a shaky breath. “But it doesn’t matter what way you took, it doesn’t need to be something fancy because . . . in the end it still saved me. I learned about that the hard way.” He looked straight at Draco. “From Snape.”

Draco was at a loss. He wanted to ask what Snape had done that could change Potter’s mind so much. The arrogant, self-righteous Potter. He bit the inside of his cheek, and asked instead, “Is that why you followed my mother’s request? Because you owe her?”

Potter nodded. “At first I didn’t want to. I was so . . . well, I really didn’t know what to do when everyone cheered for the victory. I was so angry, because so many people _died,_ and really, I didn’t defeat Voldemort by myself. I don’t deserve all that attention, sometimes I wondered if I chose the right thing, if maybe I should have died, but then . . . .” He took off his glasses, blinking too fast as he wiped them with a dirty, small cloth, then put them on again. “I saw you, and I knew there was something wrong with you. Things were weird, I just couldn’t leave you alone. I’ve observed you for years, and that feels familiar. I felt like maybe I can live again . . . .” He sighed, looking apologetically at Draco. “I’m sorry, I know you’re right. I’m sorry I used you.”

Draco took a deep breath, frantically willing himself not to break down. He set his jaw, looking up at the dark ceiling and staying that way until he was sure he wouldn’t cry. “I’m improving. I’m trying to recover, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Potter didn’t answer for a long while, his gaze didn’t leave the side of Draco’s face. When he answered, his voice was quiet. “Yeah,” he said.

“So you can rest assured and stop stalking me. Stop looking at me as your convenient damsel.”

Silence again, then, “Yeah . . . .”

“And stop thinking that you should have died or about whatever choices you made.”

This time no answer was coming. Draco turned to face him.

“I don’t know what happened in your great life as the Saviour, and I’m not sure I want to know because we were enemies and I absolutely don’t want to hear anything that can break my still fragile heart—I’m still recovering, Potter, you remember that—but you should shut up about your choices because they’re done and what use is it to think about them now?”

Potter blinked, his mouth agape.

“So you don’t know what to do after the Dark Lord died? Well, so what? You’re only eighteen, doesn’t almost every teenager feel lost about their future?” Draco huffed, glaring at Potter. “What you’re feeling now is what normal people feel. Shouldn’t you enjoy it for once now that your life is no longer mapped out for you?”

Deep inside, Draco felt like a hypocrite because he was no better than Potter. McGonagall could vouch for his hypocrisy. Potter’s dumbfounded expression, though, was worth every lie.

“I’ve . . . never thought of it that way,” Potter admitted quietly.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“So . . . you’re lost, too?”

“Me? You’re kidding,” Draco lied smoothly, crossing his arms over his chest and squaring his shoulders. Then he sent a sidelong glance at Potter. “Don’t you have it, though? Another dream?”

“Er,” said Potter, scrunching his nose. “Killing Voldemort wasn’t a dream, but—yeah, I guess I want to be an Auror.”

“Huh. Render me speechless, Potter. Good luck finding my substitute then. I’m sure there are plenty of other pitiful victims out there,” Draco drawled. “And please stop saying _that_ name.”

“What?” Potter cheered up visibly. “Oh, Voldermort?”

“I hate you,” Draco mumbled. Sceptically he watched Potter grin, marvelling at why he let himself fall for this dreadful creature beside him, not least because the creature only saw him as an object to satisfy his Hero Complex. Again, the world seemed to conspire against Draco. Well, at least the dreadful creature didn’t look so dreadful physically.

Clearing his throat, Draco patted his robes as he stood up. “If you’re done . . .”

“Wait!” Potter jumped to his feet, looking a bit hysterical. At Draco’s raised eyebrows, he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Uh, so, do you think . . . .”

“I still don’t forgive you,” Draco said quickly. Potter looked crestfallen, then he dipped his head in defeat. Before he could say anything more, though, Draco continued, “But I’ll think about it if you help me with something.”

Potter was dumbfounded. “Didn’t you say you don’t want to be helped?”

“I don’t want you to see me like a _victim_ ,” Draco hissed. “I see this proposition as a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

If Potter was cynical, he didn’t show it. “Spill then.”

Draco smirked.

* * *

“Mr Malfoy, while I’m impressed you finally exhibited some change in your report, I have difficulty believing your sincerity,” said McGonagall as she tapped Draco’s last effort on the desk with her forefinger. “What brings this sudden request?”

“I have thought about what I’ll do after I graduate, Professor,” Draco said. “I’m aware my position will make it hard for me to jump back into our society, but that’s why I’d like to widen my scope. That’s the only thing I can do.”

McGonagall only stared at him for a moment, before she read Draco’s letter again. “You’re requesting to increase your N.E.W.T.s to eight subjects, consisting of Potions, Charms, Study of Advanced Runes, Transfiguration, Arithmancy, Herbology, Defence Against the Dark Arts and Muggle Studies. As far as I know, Mr Malfoy, you’re not taking Defence Against the Dark Arts and Muggle Studies classes.”

“Yes, Professor, but I know we can still take the N.E.W.T.s despite not attending the lessons.”

“The likelihood of passing them, however, is limited. And as I hope you’re aware, the N.E.W.T. examinations will take place in another month.”

“I am, Professor,” Draco said firmly. “But I’d like to try. And I have a good tutor for Defence.”

Upon Draco’s statement, McGonagall raised her eyebrows. “Do you mean Professor Wayne Waterbook has agreed to—”

“No,” Draco answered as he tried to remember the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher’s face. In the end he dismissed it as unimportant. “But you can trust me.” He smiled smugly.

McGonagall was clearly underwhelmed by Draco’s assurances. “Very well, I assume you have this miraculous tutor for Muggle Studies as well?”

“Uh,” said Draco, a bit unsure. “No, actually. But I’ll study, I promise.”

“Mr Malfoy.” There was a warning in McGonagall’s tone. “Why the sudden interest in this subject? Why not choose Astronomy instead, which you did an adequate job for, as I recall?”

“Because . . . .” Draco sighed, looking down at the wood grain on McGonagall’s desk. “I need to prepare myself. Just in case I can’t . . . in our society.”

Draco chanced a glance at McGonagall and saw her thinning her lips. She then nodded slowly, shuffling scrolls and blank parchment to one side of her desk. “I will take care of the applications. You may take the subjects you’ve chosen, and I expect you to use your remaining month as best as you can.”

Sighing in relief, Draco nodded. “I will. Thank you, Professor.”

“And Mr Malfoy,” called McGonagall as Draco was about to head towards the door. He turned around, blinking when he saw McGonagall smile. “No need to send me reports anymore. Good luck.”

It was all Draco could do not to grin like an idiot. “Thank you, Professor.”

* * *

“ _Confringo_.”

The red light from Potter’s _Expelliarmus_ shot through Draco’s weak mist, and he had to skip aside to avoid the strike.

“Bloody hell!” He gave up, throwing himself onto a chair and breathing heavily. He could feel sweat rolling from his forehead. “This wand is just useless.”

Across the classroom, Potter studied him, wand in hand. It was as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know what to say, so Draco beat him to it.

“It’s all right, I can’t use my wand as long as I don’t beat you, anyway.” He waved his hand dismissively. Staring at his mother’s old wand, Draco traced its silky contour, wishing it would start obeying his will. It should have been a very powerful wand, if only—

“Is that why you didn’t take Defence?” Potter asked, shuffling closer to where Draco sat.

“Mm. It’s not that bad in Charms and Transfiguration, but in Defence I’m expected to cast a spell in a flash, hence this wand isn’t adequate.”

Flopping down beside him, Potter looked thoughtful. “You know, maybe if we duel every day, you’ll get used to it. But this classroom isn’t an ideal place.” He looked around the small, abandoned classroom, with too many tables and chairs taking up the space even when they had been shoved back. “Maybe we should check if the Room of Requirement still has its magic—”

“I’m fine with this room,” Draco said too quickly. Potter froze.

“Oh,” he said, swallowing. “Right, this classroom is fine. Maybe we should just shrink the tables and chairs.”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

The next fifteen minutes they spent shrinking the furniture and piling it all in a corner. Without any obstacles in the middle, the room was plenty big enough for the two of them, and so Draco secretly blew out a relieved breath. Potter never brought up about moving to another room again, though Draco prayed neither Filch nor Peeves would stop by and notice all the stuff had mysteriously shrunk.

Potter was not a decent teacher, it seemed. He had claimed that he had taught other students in his whatever club to fight evil, but really, he was never patient enough to teach. Or perhaps, it was only because his opponent was Draco that he seemed to always lose control and thus forget the fact that Draco had a useless wand. By their eighth meeting that month, he cast spells so savagely that Draco was forced to react by releasing his wild magic.

The blackboard cracked dangerously before it exploded entirely, sending debris right at Potter’s back. Rolling on the floor, Potter panted as he observed his surroundings, his expression shocked. Draco was sure his own expression was not too different.

“Bloody hell, was that yours?” Potter’s voice was slightly above a whisper.

“I think so,” Draco said, eyes wide. “My magic won’t channel through the wand. It went wild.” That was embarrassing. Draco had never let his magic loose wildly ever since he came to Hogwarts, but now, in front of Potter of all people . . . . “Fuck, I’m—” Running his hand over his face, Draco shook his head. “What am I thinking, wanting to take a N.E.W.T. in Defence?”

“Hey,” Potter whispered, standing up and grasping Draco’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay, we still have three weeks.”

“Do you think if I get a high mark for the theory, I can still pass without a decent mark in the practical exam?”

“Honestly, Malfoy, I don’t know.” Potter shook his head. “But we can still try. You’re not giving up, are you?”

Taking a deep breath, Draco stared at the ceiling for a while. As always, Potter’s gaze was roaming on the side of his face, and he couldn’t help but smile weakly. “No, I’ve given up for too long. I can’t give up anymore.”

“Good.” Potter squeezed his shoulder, and then proceeded to take his duelling position. His shoulder blades shifted under the thin fabric of his white shirt as he walked. Draco watched until Potter turned around and shot his eyebrows up askance. “Ready?”

Settling his breath and mind—he definitely should stop thinking about someone who wasn’t interested inhim—he nodded and took his stance. Potter was more careful this time. Draco wasn’t certain if it was a nice thing, though. The rest of the evening, Draco didn’t let out any wild magic, but he didn’t improve either. Only one thing he was sure of—the more time he spent with Potter, the more he realised how miserable he was.

Potter, it seemed, was getting back with Girl Weasley. Sometimes, before their appointment, Draco would catch him talking with her, and a couple of times she even walked together with him until just before the empty classroom’s door. She scrutinised Draco as if Draco was a pest, but when she asked Potter what in the world he was doing every day with Draco in the classroom, Potter didn’t answer her.

Good for him, because otherwise Draco would have to kill him.

In spite of the routine duels, though, Draco’s wand work was still below adequate. Add the burden of Muggle Studies, which he knew absolutely nothing about despite devouring half the Muggle Theories books in the library, and the other six subjects he had taken for N.E.W.T.s, Draco was beyond depressed. By the third week of May, Draco was ready to drown himself in the lake.

Pansy was amused by the idea, though.

“Draco, if you want to die, isn’t it better to haunt the girls bathroom rather than the lake? You’ll be lonely with only the Giant Squid as your friend.”

“Bathrooms are off limits. They’re Myrtle’s,” said Draco through clenched teeth.

Skipping lightly on the grass, Pansy put a hand on her forehead to shadow her eyes, as she squinted at the calm surface of the lake. The sun was setting on the horizon, but Draco was in no mood to enjoy the normally breathtaking view. He leaned on his elbows, legs spreading on the grass, sulking.

“Don’t worry, Myrtle’s willing to share. She likes you,” Pansy said amiably.

“How about I haunt you instead? So you won’t be able to get a boyfriend for the rest of your life.”

“That’s low, Draco.” Pansy tutted. Then she sprawled beside him, smiling all the while. “All right, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Potter and Ginny Weasley. Is that what this is all about?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Draco—”

“I’m taking eight N.E.W.T.s, Pansy, that’s all this is about,” Draco said, and was shocked to find his voice was closer to a whine.

“Eight N.E.W.T.s and a Potter-Weasley alliance.” Pansy studied her nails, unimpressed. “Honestly, Draco, you don’t know if they’re really together.”

“Looks to me like they are.” Draco sulked.

“ _Honestly_.” Pansy sighed, crossing her arms over her bosom. “Talk to Potter. You spend time every day with him and yet you haven’t used it to your advantage.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m busy trying not to get killed by Potter.”

“That’s no excuse. The Draco I know has never backed down when courting women.” Pansy harrumphed. Draco rolled his eyes.

“Potter is no woman, and even if he were, I’d never lay my hands on someone who’s already taken.” Besides, he had only been close with Pansy and Astoria, why would Pansy make it sound like he was a playboy or something? He suppressed a shudder.

“Silly boys.” Pansy snorted.

“Elegant as always, Milady.”

She laughed, jabbing Draco’s waist. He was forced to roll, striving desperately to get away as her fingers started to tickle him. As he laughed and yelled, face flushed and no N.E.W.T.s or Potter occupying his mind, Draco felt vastly better. When he went back to the empty classroom, however, his mood deflated drastically. Potter was chatting by the door with Girl Weasley.

“My, don’t mind me, you should find a room,” Draco drawled sarcastically, sneering at the display. Potter grinned when he turned, clearly he didn’t really hear what Draco had said, but he frowned immediately.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Harry, can’t you just leave him alone?” Girl Weasley sighed, looking frustrated. “N.E.W.T.s are less than a week away, shouldn’t you study?”

“By study you mean snog the breath out of each other.” Draco sneered. “Well, go on, Potter, you’re free to go.”

“Harry isn’t your servant, he doesn’t need you to tell him he’s free to go.” Girl Weasley glared. Potter held her arm confusedly.

“No, Ginny, wait.” He watched Draco. “There’s something wrong.”

“Oh, sod off, Potter,” Draco snarled, slamming the door open and filing inside. He locked it just because it gave him some assurance, then stomped to the far wall. Sitting on the floor, he leaned back, head thudding the wall lightly as he ran his hands down his face.

That was unnecessary, he should know better than venting his frustration on Potter. That was even more embarrassing than his wild magic flaunt weeks prior. Draco groaned. He really shouldn’t have signed up for eight N.E.W.T.s . . . .

After about ten minutes, there was a sound coming from the door, and Potter slipped quietly inside. He lit the torches on the walls and closed the door again, head cocking on one side. “Should I lock it?”

Draco closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. “Whatever, people can open it again with _Alohomora_ , anyway.”

“Er, if it’s necessary, I can cast a stronger spell,” said Potter, unsure. But Draco simply shook his head, not even looking. “Okay, then.” There were clomping sounds, then suddenly Draco’s shoulder brushed against something. Draco cracked one eye open. “So, what’s wrong, Malfoy?”

Draco sighed. “Nothing. I was just too stressed out, I guess. I’m still not balanced, you know.”

“But you were never balanced before,” Potter pointed out, grinning.

“True enough.” Draco shrugged one shoulder. “That just means I’m more imbalanced than before.”

“You’re eating well?”

Draco peered at him. “Are you going to report to my mother again?”

“No, I’ve stopped. But I will if I must.”

Draco drew up his knees, resting his forehead on them. “I’ve been on potions. Madam Pomfrey gave me enough to last until N.E.W.T.s, I have to ask for more after that, though.”

“I see,” said Potter.

For a long time, only the sounds of their breathing were there. Draco was content enough to bury his face in between his knees, arms hanging limply at his sides. Yet, to Potter silence was never blissful.

“Are you all right, though? Do you want to cancel our duel?”

“I don’t think I can pass,” Draco finally admitted. “I don’t even think I can pass the other subjects, either, now that I’ve wasted my time studying a subject I have no chance of passing.”

There was a sighing sound. “Malfoy, you’re giving up again.”

“Shouldn’t I be?” Draco shifted so his cheek was on his knees, and he could see Potter’s concerned eyes behind his glasses. “I really—I don’t know anymore.”

“Malfoy—”

“No, don’t.” Draco held a hand up. “I know I shouldn’t give up. It’s just—it’ll go by, I guess.”

Potter nodded, still watching him. His hand came up to Draco’s hair, fiddling with the locks lightly. Draco’s heart skipped a beat. “What?” he snapped.

Laughing, Potter didn’t recoil. “It’s just, the fire from the torches are reflected here. Your hair looks nice.”

Something twisted in Draco’s chest. Half-heartedly, he swatted Potter’s hand away. “Don’t do that.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Potter was fretting again, nibbling on his lower lip and staring straight ahead at the door. Draco saw how the fire reflected on his glasses, his cheeks, the muscles on his arms that were peeking from under that short sleeved t-shirt. He remembered how that body felt inside his arms, how it felt to nip at that lower lip—he almost volunteered to replace Potter’s teeth with his own. But he asked instead, “Is it all right leaving her like that?”

“What? Oh.” Potter’s swallowed. “It’s all right.”

“You’re together again, aren’t you?”

Potter hesitated. “It’s not going to work, though.”

“Then why?”

Sighing, Potter leaned his head back. “I don’t know. Pressure, I guess. Stupidity.”

“You like having your life decided for you?”

“No. No, but—I’ve always lived like that. I just don’t know how not to live like that,” said Potter wryly.

“I’m the same as you, but I want to try.” Draco shifted to get a closer look at Potter, his fingers brushing against Potter’s cheekbone. Potter’s breath hitched. “I want to try. Shouldn’t you try, too?” He stroked Potter’s jaw, then back to his cheek.

“You’re trying too hard,” whispered Potter. Draco’s fingers stilled, and he held Potter’s eyes for what seemed longer than it must have been. Eventually he reached down, leaning his head back and observed the boring door instead.

“Yeah, I’m trying too hard and I still won’t get anything.”

Potter didn’t answer. He continued to chew on his lower lip, not even daring a glance towards Draco. Finally, he left without a word.

* * *

The next day, Potter acted as if nothing happened. To Draco, it might have come as a relief—that way they could still practice like usual and converse and snipe insults at each other. But it wasn’t a lie, too, that he actually wanted to break everything apart. Was he really that unimportant? Was he really that expendable that Potter could easily ignore what he had said? Draco wanted to scream and kick at every moving thing, including Potter. Yet he buried them inside, focusing himself on N.E.W.T.s and his daily meditation.

Potter didn’t bring Girl Weasley to the empty classroom anymore, but Draco sometimes still saw him talking with her in the corridor. When that happened, Draco would shuffle away, opting to go back to his books and chant potions ingredients. N.E.W.T.s were coming up, his nervousness was showing in full force, and none of his study was really helpful. He was counting down to doomsday with the air of someone waiting on their deathbed. Before he was ready, though, lessons had ended, homework had been collected, and the N.E.W.T.s would start the very next day.

Draco desperately wanted to hang himself.

He was settling his breathing in the empty classroom, urging away the slight tremor in his body and the signs of a panic attack that had been teasing the rim of his sanity, when Potter came in. Sitting on the floor before him, Potter took his hand and rubbed his thumb in circular motions.

“Are you all right?”

“You’re not creative, Potter,” Draco wheezed, attempting a smirk to no avail. “Always the same question.”

“Because I’m worried,” Potter said, smiling.

“I’m fine. Just a moment. It’ll pass.” Draco closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing again.

Potter complied. He waited in silence, his thumb never ceasing to rub Draco’s knuckle gently. It helped, giving Draco something he could think of aside from his breathing, and gradually his nerves calmed down. Opening his eyes, he clutched Potter’s hand back.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“I’m nervous, too,” Potter said tensely. “Watching you calm yourself down helped me.”

“What are you taking?”

“Only the required five for Auror training. Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology and Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“Pity we’re not in the same class for Herbology.”

Potter scowled. “Sometimes, Malfoy, I don’t know when you’re joking and when you’re not.”

Draco laughed in dismissal. “You’re nervous about Potions, I’ll wager.” Potter’s cheeks grew pinker. Draco felt a slight tug of pity. “It’s all right, our N.E.W.T. project should get a high mark. It’ll help you.”

“I owe you, then.” Potter grinned.

“As you should.” Draco grinned back.

“You know . . . .” Potter said tentatively, his eyes trained on his hand in Draco’s. “I want to give you something.”

“Mm?” Draco raised his eyebrows. Disentangling his hand from Draco’s, Potter shuffled inside his bag, then scooped out a rectangular box, cocooned in red linen. He opened the linen, revealing a black mahogany box, and he motioned for Draco to open the lid. Suspicion crept inside Draco.

“No,” Draco said. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am.” Potter smirked. Draco was certain his eyes were so big now.

Nervously his hand hovered above the lid, before he slowly opened the lid up to unveil ten inches of slick, black wand. Draco held his breath. “It’s my Hawthorn.”

“Yeah, you can take it.”

Instead of doing just that, though, Draco frowned at Potter. “I can’t, Potter. This is not my wand anymore.”

“How about you try it?”

“Potter, I haven’t won anything from you—”

“Just try it.”

Blinking in question, Draco couldn’t help but let his curiosity get the better of him. As far as he knew, he hadn’t even once beat Potter in their duels. What the bloody hell was Potter thinking?

“Fine, if you insist,” said Draco suspiciously.

He cautiously seized the wand from its box, and savoured the sensation as his fingers touched its coolness. It felt right in his hand—he had no idea how he had missed it until now. But it still wasn’t his wand . . . .

“ _Wingardium Leviosa_ ,” he cast at Potter’s bag, and was instantly stunned by how easy and light it was to Levitate it. He gaped, looked at Potter, and found Potter grinning like an idiot.

“See? I told you it’d work,” he said excitedly.

“How?” Draco was speechless, mouth gaping like a fish. He put Potter’s bag down to cast _Stupefy_ to the empty place before him, watching in astonishment as the beam flared so easily. He whirled around to see Potter still grinning ear to ear. “Explain,” he said breathlessly.

“There’s nothing to explain aside from the fact that you’ve won something of me.” Potter shrugged wickedly. Draco frowned for a long while, the wheels in his mind reeling fast as he tried to remember exactly when he had won anything from Potter—especially not Quidditch. Never Quidditch _—_ and why in seven hells did Potter look so smug for someone who had _lost_ something?

Until it hit him that Potter said Draco had won something _of_ him—not from him.

Then he started to laugh aloud.

“Merlin, Potter!” He laughed and laughed, basking in the overwhelming new knowledge as Potter walked over. Once he was near enough, Draco pocketed his wand and pulled Potter close, his arms locked around Potter’s waist in a painful embrace. He was still laughing, but somehow, the sounds came out shaky. Potter’s hands slid up Draco’s back and stayed.

“You chose me,” Draco whispered, tightening his embrace. He could feel Potter nod, his mouth warm against the side of Draco’s neck. “Don’t regret it. Please don’t regret it.”

“I won’t. Someone taught me to stop thinking about the choices I made. I just have to live with them, so there’ll be no regrets.”

“That someone must be really brilliant.”

Potter chuckled. “Oh, he is.”

“God.” Draco released Potter’s waist, hands cupping Potter’s cheeks, while he searched for whatever he could find in Potter’s eyes. Thumbs tracing Potter’s cheekbones, Draco pulled him closer until their lips met.

This time, Draco smelled the scent of musk and sweat, mingled into one intoxicating Harry Potter. The chapped soft skin of Potter’s lips had the faint taste of sweet pumpkin juice, underlying the sweeter taste of chocolate frogs. Draco vaguely wondered if Potter tasted the caramel pudding from supper on Draco’s lips. It was almost dizzying to even think about it, let alone to believe that he really was _kissing_ Potter.

The sensation of Potter’s glasses digging into his skin made him almost whimper. Sucking on Potter’s lower lip, he alternately let his teeth nip at it. Potter returned by opening his mouth, tongue lapping over Draco’s upper lip, and they both moaned. As Draco opened his mouth to taste Potter’s tongue with his own, he jerked his hips forward, swallowing Potter’s gasp that sounded too delicious. The friction continued—Potter thrust forward in answer to Draco’s eager movements, their hands wandering on every surface they could touch, as everything turned into heat, moans and sweat.

Then Draco’s lips trailed along Potter’s jaw, tracing the contour between his neck and shoulder, licking, sucking and biting it hard.

“Fuck, Malfoy!” Potter scrambled away, a hand instantly cupping his neck. “What was that for?”

Upon no answer from Draco, Potter’s glazed eyes cleared up, his expression struck with dread.

“No,” he said in panic. “No, don’t tell me you’re going to end this again. Like—like on Valentine’s—”

“What? No,” Draco said, still breathless. He smirked, and was sure Potter saw something in his eyes that made him petrified.

“What. What are you planning?”

“Well, Potter, I know this is kind of overwhelming, but we do still have N.E.W.T.s tomorrow.” Draco came close again, hands tangling in Potter’s surprisingly soft hair. He kissed Potter lightly on the mouth, barely brushing, as he said, “But we can do more after that.”

Potter gasped. “. . . promise?”

“Two weeks. Can you wait?”

“Two weeks,” Potter echoed.

“Until then, let us concentrate. No meetings, no rendezvous.”

Potter whimpered.

“Thank you.” Draco kissed him again, smirking against the soft lips, then he let go. “For the wand.”

“Er.” Swallowing, Potter forced a casual smile. “Yeah, anytime.”

“Now I want to bond with it again,” Draco said, grinning as he produced his wand from his pocket.

He laughed madly, conjuring clouds and rainbows and shooting colourful lights across the room. He transfigured the tiny chairs in the corner to bunnies and frogs, catching Potter off-guard once in a while as he suddenly cast _Impedimenta_ and _Tarantallegra_. Potter retaliated with a few jinxes and hexes, as they laughed and yelled despite the late hour.

Only when Pansy slammed the door open to glare at Draco and remind him that it was past midnight did Draco stop playing, but the grin never faltered. Potter, too, was panting and beaming.

Temporarily Draco forgot that tomorrow was doomsday.

* * *

N.E.W.T.s were hell, that was definite. Not that Draco believed in the afterlife aside from being transparent and floating in the air to annoy the living, but the mere existence of N.E.W.T.s were enough to assure Draco of Hell’s existence. Particularly Muggle Studies N.E.W.T.

Draco nibbled on his quill, resisting the palpable urge to blow up the whole class with wild magic. It was even more irritating to see the Know-It-All-Granger sitting right before him, filling in all answers leisurely. What was she doing, taking up Muggle Studies, anyway? It wasn’t like she _needed_ the knowledge. Draco chewed the quill savagely.

Unfortunately, in a depressing state like this, hours and days always went by painfully slowly. The only thing that made him smile was the short note from Potter he received early morning on his birthday. But as he buried himself deeper under the piles of books, plant samples and potions ingredients, eventually two weeks passed, and N.E.W.T.s were over. Thank Merlin Draco was too nervous to actually remember any of his answers. If he had, he would have immediately looked up the right answers, which would prove bloody depressing if he had made a lot of mistakes.

Though, when he promised Potter that they could do more after two weeks suffering from N.E.W.T.s torture, he didn’t mean anything like this. The plan was involving an empty classroom, oh yes. But they clearly didn’t need any Know-It-All, Weasel or Weaslette watching.

Naughty, kinky Potter.

“Harry, do you mind?” Granger asked, exasperated. “I know that you‘ve been a bit obsessed with him lately, but I thought it was just a phase.”

Draco snorted, crossing one of his legs above the other. He had placed his chair as far as possible from them, but even then he could still hear what they said too clearly for his liking.

“You’re not barmy, are you, mate?” Weasel looked like he had just seen Moaning Myrtle batting her eyelashes at his naked arse. Weaslette shifted uncomfortably by his side.

Potter, the dolt, shrugged one shoulder shamelessly. “Look, I thought it’d be better if I just talked with you all now. I don’t plan to keep it a secret, and I don’t want to, okay?”

“But I’d appreciate it if you told me about your coming out plan first, Potter. After all, I’m supposed to be the other party in this plan,” Draco drawled indignantly.

“Er.” Potter deflated. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . . Do you mind?”

Draco studied the three pinched faces, and decided he liked the misery reflected there. “Not really.”

“Okay, then.” Potter went back facing the three. “So that’s what happened.”

Weaslette flattened her lips. “I knew something was going on. And I knew it was him when you said you wanted to be with someone else.”

“You knew?” Weasel yelped incredulously. He flinched afterward, and Draco saw Granger’s hand had disappeared beneath the desk. “Uh. I guess you two didn’t work out then. Since when?”

“A little more than two weeks ago.” Weaslette shrugged.

“I’m sorry, Ginny,” said Potter softly. Even Draco could see her attempt to resist the tears, and felt a slight bit of pity. He changed back to calling her Girl Weasley in his head.

“But, Harry!” Weasel stood up. “I could understand if you were gay or bi or whatever. But why the ferret?”

“Shut up, Weasel,” Draco snarled.

“See? He’s a slimy git, his father was a Death Eater, he _was_ a Death Eater!”

“Oh, that’s rich, because if you attacked me first, it wouldn’t make _you_ the git,” Draco hissed.

Potter’s hands came up to Weasley’s arm. “Ron, don’t—”

“Oh, yeah? Bet you’d scram and wail to Daddy now. But he doesn’t have the power to help you anymore, does he?”

Draco clenched his fists. “Leave Father out of this,” he snarled, spitting each word with contempt. Weasel smirked spitefully.

“How does it feel, Malfoy? How does it feel to be lower than those you mocked? You can’t say anything about my family again because your—”

“Ron, _no_ , he’s still recovering!” Potter grabbed both of Weasel’s shoulders, shaking them hard. Weasel gaped and still had the grace to look hurt.

“Harry, he deserves it. He’s a nasty git!”

“Was,” Potter corrected. “He was a nasty git. I was a nasty git. You were, too. _Are_ now.”

Weasel spluttered incoherently. Potter left him, hurrying to Draco’s side as Draco tried hard to breathe. His face was hot, like he had been standing burning under the sun for hours, but he blinked his eyes, willing all the waves of anger go away.

“Are you all right?” Potter asked as he dropped on his knees beside Draco’s chair.

“I told you you’re so uncreative,” Draco said shallowly.

“Harry, what do you mean he’s still recovering?” Now it was Granger’s turn to ask, her eyes wide with curiosity. But Potter only stared at her, and she instantly put two and two together. That smart-arsed bint. “It was about him, right? All those questions?”

Potter nodded. Weasel let out a strangled noise. “What _questions_ , Hermione?”

“Oh shut up, Ron. You’re not like this. Just calm down.” She pushed Weasel’s shoulders down so he plopped down the chair again, then she sat back. “Harry, you shouldn’t do this to yourself. Or to him.”

Potter perked up, his expression grew darker. “What? What shouldn’t I do to myself and _him_?”

“This,” she said. “You’ve done enough for all of us. You don’t have to still live helping people.”

 _Fuck_ , Draco hissed inside. That fucking stung.

“Is that why you chose him, Harry?” Weasel’s face dawned with comprehension. “You want to help him? Blimey, Harry, there are plenty good Witches or Wizards that still need your help if that’s what you—”

“Is it really hard to believe that I chose him simply because I want him?”

Draco was too busy settling his breathing and tuning out every painful word so that it took several seconds for him to understand Potter’s words. Blinking, he turned to Potter, watching him pleading with his eyes, needing understanding.

Then Draco thought of his wand, and what he had won from Potter, and everything was right again.

“I want to try walking on the path I chose myself, okay? I still don’t know how, but I want to try, Malfoy wants to try, and I think the first step is just to follow what I want, not what everybody else wants,” Potter said, standing up with hands moving wildly while he was explaining, his eyes alight with excitement and something other—something that made Draco remember how alive Potter was.

“Harry . . . .” Granger said, shaking her head. Weasel was getting paler by the second.

“I think I need time,” he croaked. “Sorry, Harry, but . . . blimey . . . .”

“I know, Ron,” said Potter. “I trust you as my best friend, though.”

Weasel frowned. “You know that’s unfair.”

“I still trust you.”

Weasel was silent, then nodded slowly. As soon as he did, every eye shifted towards Girl Weasley, who was wearing a carefully blank expression all the while.

“Ginny?” Potter asked hesitantly.

She was jerked to earth, curling her fingers on the desk. She blinked several times, taking a few deep breaths. Finally she pressed a small smile. “I’d lie if I said it doesn’t hurt, Harry.”

“I know . . . .”

“But it’s not really my place to say anything, is it? We’ve tried twice, and we still couldn’t work out. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do aside from admitting that we just can’t be together,” she said dryly. “I really appreciate that you told me this, though. I’d hate it if you keep it a secret or if you stay away from me because we can’t be together.” She laughed shakily. Potter smiled back.

“No, I would never—”

“I know, Harry. Thank you,” she said, then to Draco’s chagrin, she added, “It doesn’t mean I like who you chose, though.”

“How can you be so _calm_?” Weasel asked disbelievingly, his nose scrunched up. Girl Weasley fumed and jabbed a finger at Weasel’s chest.

“If _I_ can look so calm, then you’d better too, Ronald. I’m the one who was dumped after all,” she snarled. Weasel whimpered and Potter choked. She smiled at Potter innocently. “Oh, please don’t mind us, Harry. Sibling quarrels and all, you know.”

“Um.” Potter pleaded to Granger for help, at which Granger merely faked a cough and looked away. “Right, it’s okay,” said Potter resignedly.

But Draco hated this. It was as if he was watching a cheap Wizarding theatre show, where he could only watch and watch and watch _silently_ , trying to involve himself in the play but couldn’t because he simply _wasn’t_ in the play. Was it really necessary for all Gryffindors to shed tears dramatically while declaring their love for each other?

Kicking the desk until it screeched towards the three yelping idiots, Draco rushed from the suffocating classroom. It wasn’t his business if those three wanted to hate him. Wasn’t his business if they wanted to hug and sing love songs together. So he left, gritting his teeth when he heard Weasel curse how much of a git he was for acting this way.

But Potter was chasing him. He pulled Draco’s arm, gently sliding his fingers and locking them between Draco’s own. “Hey,” he said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? It could be worse.”

“Wasn’t so bad, Potter? It was so touching I wanted to puke,” Draco said through clenched teeth.

“All right, it’s my fault for forcing you to come. But you said you didn’t mind.”

“Well, I changed my mind. There.”

Potter sighed. “That’s selfish, Malfoy.”

“So?” Draco whirled around. “I’m selfish, you knew that eight years ago. You’re selfish, I knew that a month and a half ago. How does it become a problem now?”

“It’s not a problem.” Potter grinned. “I think it’s hot.”

“Excuse me?” Draco made a face. “Bloody hell, you’re a nutter.”

“Shut up, Malfoy.” Potter laughed, pushing Draco against the wall with a palm on Draco’s chest. “Kiss me now.”

Draco thought of different reasons to walk away and escape from this kinky prat that wore horrid glasses. But against his better judgement, he curled his fingers on the back of Potter’s neck, capturing his lips in an open mouthed kiss.

“Now who’s the slimy git?” Draco whispered between the kisses.

Potter only laughed.

* * *

The Great Hall was washed by rounds of applause as McGonagall finished her speech. The House Cup had been bestowed upon the house that had most points, and unsurprisingly, it was Ravenclaw. With the war ended, Potter and his two minions couldn’t sneak any points off their heroic adventures, while Slytherin was lacking in members. Without Quidditch games this last year, the points mostly came from class interactions. Of course Ravenclaw beat all the houses when it came to studying. Hufflepuff simply didn’t stand a chance.

Seventh and eighth year students cheered for their graduation, though a few were crying as they talked to each other about the events they had lived through since the first time they boarded the Hogwarts Express. Everyone purposefully avoided any topics connected to the war, oddly determined to maintain the peaceful atmosphere on their last Hogwarts day. Even the professors and staff were smiling contentedly at the High Table.

“To us!” Zabini brought up his goblet of pumpkin juice, and everyone mirrored the action. They all sipped from their goblets quietly. “This is only the beginning, don’t forget that, you lot.”

“Thank you for the marvellous speech, Blaise, but you’re not our leader, you know,” Pansy said sweetly, her fingers tracing her goblet aimlessly. Zabini smirked slyly.

“I’d love to make you my leader, Pansy,” he coaxed, wiggling his eyebrows. Pansy slapped his forehead as she laughed.

“He’s right, though. This is only the beginning,” said Draco. “We shouldn’t forget that whatever happens.”

All seventh and eighth years nodded at him, knowing what that meant for them, Slytherins. It would be a difficult beginning once they stepped out of Hogwarts, but still a beginning nonetheless. What happened next would be up to them, and they shouldn’t give up until they found the ending they wanted.

“Nice one, Malfoy,” Daphne smiled at him, and soon Zabini was all over her, wailing that it was originally _his_ line. Draco only smirked smugly.

When the Feast was over, students filed out of the Great Hall in random groups. Draco strode alone, observing all the portraits lining the corridors and greeting some ghosts for the last time. Astoria called to him then, skipping lightly and still managing to look poised unlike Pansy.

“Here.” She handed him a rectangular silver frame, no bigger than the size of an ordinary text book. The metalwork was delicately done, showing an embossed silver snake baring its teeth at a small jade in one corner, but it was empty. Draco stared at her questioningly.

“Look,” she said as she pulled her wand and tapped lightly on the frame. “ _Specialis Revelio_.” The black emptiness inside the frame distorted into a grey mist, before appearing to be a black and white portrait of Hogwarts castle. The picture then changed to show other parts of it—the Entrance Hall, the Quidditch pitch, the Great Hall, the Slytherin common room, the classrooms and possibly many other areas in both old and new versions. Draco nearly gawked at Astoria as she tapped it again, “ _Finite_.”

“This is for me?” Draco asked, astounded.

“I think you need it. Daphne helped me with the charm, of course. And I still haven’t sketched a lot of other places, but I think most of the commonly visited ones are there.”

“God,” Draco laughed, crushing Astoria into a hug. “That was brilliant. That was—thank you. Really, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Astoria patted his back gently. “Don’t ever forget your past.”

“I won’t.” Draco nodded into her hair. Drawing back, he caught her smiling widely, and swore he had never seen her this carefree.

“Good luck.” She patted Draco’s hair, and he couldn’t help but kiss her forehead in an overwhelming appreciation.

“Thank you. I’m sorry. For everything.”

She nodded, staring at Draco’s eyes, her fingers lingering in his hair for a fraction longer. Then she left.

Draco caressed the frame, knowing for sure that the Astronomy Tower must have been there. And he wondered if the Room of Requirement would be there, too. He could do this, though. He knew he could, even if it wasn’t now.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he turned around, only to see Potter standing right before him.

“Bloody hell, what’re you doing?” he asked, aghast.

“Scared, Malfoy?” Potter smirked

“Hardly! Why can’t you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Stalking me, sneaking up on me! You don’t have to do that again, you can approach me straight ahead now.”

Potter chuckled but his eyes didn’t participate. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

Squinting, Draco cocked his head to the side. Potter was radiating that restless air again, his jaw tensed and shoulders slumped. He appeared to be thinking hard, but trying not to look like thinking at the same time. Once it all clicked, it was all Draco could do not to laugh in glee.

“Come here.” He tugged Potter’s wrist, ignoring the slight protest that came with it. As they stepped into the usual unused classroom, Draco locked the door, faced Potter, and announced cheerfully, “You’re jealous!”

There was a slight pink flush crawling up Potter’s neck. “I’m not,” he mumbled stubbornly.

“Yes, yes, you are. Although why you’re always jealous of Astoria is beyond me.” Draco grinned.

“Really? Maybe because you two always act like there isn’t anyone else in the world?” Potter said sarcastically.

“Is that what someone who isn’t jealous would say?”

“I was just saying hypothetically.” Potter glared childishly. Draco was certain his laughter would reach the Great Hall if he didn’t bite his tongue.

“No, really.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve never really been with Astoria. I just can’t understand why you’re not jealous of Pansy instead.”

“Malfoy, Parkinson is your friend!”

“So is Astoria,” Draco pointed out. “And I was with Pansy for more than two years.”

Potter seemed to be mulling over this new fact, and he peered cautiously at Draco. “Is there any other reason for me to be jealous of Parkinson, then?”

“No, there isn’t! God, Potter, stop being a jealous git.” Laughing, Draco put his frame on the floor, then pushed Potter so he backtracked until the small of his back hit the desk from their last meeting with Weasel and the others. “Now, I think we should do a lot of things before we leave Hogwarts tomorrow. Less talk, more action, Potter.”

“More action? Of what kind?” Potter asked innocently, his arms circled around Draco’s neck. Draco chuckled against the side of his jaw.

“The door. Stronger spell, Potter.”

“Mm.” Potter carelessly waved his wand in the general direction of the door, muttering the spell as his other hand slid down Draco’s chest and fumbled with Draco’s robes. Once he had pried open the few buttons of Draco’s robes and shirt, he frowned. “What’s this?”

Gasping, Draco caught Potter’s hand on his bare chest. He swallowed. “Leave it.”

“What? But—it’s a Glamour . . . .” Potter froze, then he looked up at Draco. “God, I’m so—”

“Leave it, Potter,” Draco warned. Potter gulped, his eyes wavered. But he nodded and kissed Draco slowly, desperately. He didn’t say anything close to an apology again, thankfully, but his caresses and kisses spoke more than that. Draco relaxed again, letting out a contented sigh into Potter’s mouth.

“Can I fuck you?” Potter asked.

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Can I fuck you next?”

“God, yes.” Potter laughed, breathless. Draco opened his mouth and sucked on the sensitive skin behind Potter’s earlobe, earning a delightful moan.

“Deal,” he said.

* * *

“What’re you planning next?” Potter asked, catching his breath as he rolled onto his side on the floor. Draco was frowning at the mesh of wrinkled robes they had used as a makeshift carpet, hands zipping his trousers.

“The Manor has been sold. I’m going to my parents’ new house until I find my own flat.” He walked to a corner, took a tiny chair and walked back to where Potter was sprawling lazily in his trousers. “It’s in Surrey.”

“The Manor’s been sold?” Potter gasped. “Wait, you’re going to live alone?”

“Mm, that’s what I’m planning to do.” Draco swished his wand and the tiny chair metamorphosed into a grand king-sized bed. He touched his chin in contemplation, before adding green sheets and blankets. “What my parents want is a different matter. I’m nineteen though, I can decide this much by myself at least.”

“I still can’t believe they’d sell the Manor,” Potter said warily.

“Well, it wasn’t an easy choice, Father kept justifying his decision by telling me how the ancestors would be proud, that as long as we survive, the Malfoy line would regain its eminence again.”

“Er. To continue the Malfoy line . . . .” Potter sat up, rubbing his left arm uneasily, and for some reason reminding Draco of his own faded Dark Mark. Draco smiled sourly.

“My parents will persuade me to marry, Potter. I expect it’d take years to convince them otherwise, but if you want to try—”

“Of course I do, you git,” Potter snapped, frowning. Draco couldn’t help but laugh. “But you know, about your father . . . .”

“He’s not the best person—”

“That’s an understatement.”

“—but he’s a good father. At least to me,” Draco finished.

Potter looked like he wanted to counter, perhaps with something like no good father would make his son a Death Eater, but he seemed to think better of it. After all, no matter how flawed Draco’s father was, he was still his father—and Draco wouldn’t stay silent if Potter said anything revolting against him. So Draco continued to add the canopy for the four poster bed, secretly grateful for Potter’s silence.

“I’m pretty sure I can’t work in Wizarding society for now,” Draco said after a while. “Besides, I want to continue my studies. I need money for my flat and school. I’ll have to work before I apply anywhere, though.”

Potter perked up. “Where do you want to work then? What do you want to study?”

“I don’t know, anything that can make me more skilful. Ordinary skills wouldn’t work for me. I have to have a great proposition, or no one would employ me. I’m thinking to save up some money in the Muggle world first.”

“Muggle?” Potter gawked.

“Mm, we can exchange Muggle money into Galleons at Gringotts, didn’t you know that?”

“I’m not asking about that,” Potter said, scandalised. “I mean, Muggle world?”

Draco sighed. “I can’t work in the Wizarding world until I increase my bargaining power, Potter, remember? I’ve been prepared for this ever since I decided to take Muggle Studies for my N.E.W.T.s.”

“But—”

“I know that it’s not enough knowledge for me to chance living in the Muggle world, but I have to try because what else can I do? I also want to go into therapies because I’m sick of Pomfrey’s potions. I can’t imagine drinking another batch of them, and for that I _need_ money,” Draco said sullenly. “I have so many plans, you know.”

Potter didn’t say anything for a few minutes while Draco continued to add four fluffy pillows in green and silver patterns.

“Okay, it’s just too much information at once, I guess,” Potter finally said.

“What are you planning aside from signing up for Auror training?

“Just—I think I have to take care of Grimmauld Place. That house needs something more—cheerful. Or something.”

“Grimmauld Place?” Draco raised an eyebrow.

“The Black House. Sirius—your mother’s cousin gave it to me . . . .”

“Ah,” Draco said. “I know the story. From my mother. You’re living there, then?”

“Yeah.”

They were silent again, but this time it felt more peaceful rather than awkward. Draco added a final red touch on the bed’s curtains, and then he preened. “I’m so generous, I allow a Gryffindor colour in my creation.”

“I’m touched,” said Potter, rolling his eyes. Yet he made his way towards the bed. “What’s it for?”

“Again, I transfigured a bed because I’m so generous I don’t want you to have a back cramp. The floor was horrible.” Draco rubbed the back of his waist scornfully. Upon Potter’s laughter, he sneered and climbed onto the bed. “Come here,” he said, tugging Potter’s arm.

Potter complied, lying on his back when Draco leisurely ran his fingers over Potter’s collar bone. “So, Muggle world, huh. Must be interesting. You and Muggle, bonding,” said Potter with a wide grin.

“I’m expecting a lot of tears and surprises, but I’ll manage.” Draco shrugged a shoulder, circling Potter’s nipples with his fingers, inviting a suppressed gasp. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

“I thought you don’t want my help.”

“I want it now.” Draco’s fingers went lower, teasing Potter’s navel and the fine hair leading down the waistband of his trousers. Potter stifled a moan.

“That’s selfish,” he whispered. “But I like it.”

Humming, Draco bent down, claiming Potter’s lips in slow, teasing kisses. Potter responded impatiently, wanting to take the lead, but Draco pushed him down, shaking his head. “My hero,” he said and kissed Potter again.

Draco felt alive.

* * *

 **Epilogue**  

_19 Hartfield Road, London_

_31 July, 2001_

_Dear Headmistress Minerva McGonagall,_

 

Draco paused on his letter as several clanking sounds reverberated from his kitchen. Sighing, he put down his quill, scrolling the parchment and hiding it inside his drawer. Straightening his shirt, he checked for any ink smudges and was satisfied that it was still a flawless light blue. He ran his fingers through his loose fringe, walking out of his study to catch the culprit attempting to break his kitchen.

“What are you doing, really?”

“Er. Sorry, I didn’t know you mistook this cocktail bowl for a cauldron,” said Potter cynically. He grumbled as he cast _Reparo_ on the shattered glass all over the tiles. Draco clucked his tongue.

“Just Vanish it, I won’t be able to use the cauldron anymore. Magical influence is bad for potions, don’t you remember what Professor Snape kindly, _repeatedly_ , reminded you, Potter?”

“No, because I don’t care,” Potter said. “I need this _cocktail bowl_ because I bought it and I want to use it.”

“Fine, what’re you making?” Draco asked, sitting at the edge of the pantry. He saw Potter had set up the dining table with seven sets of silver cutlery just like Draco always taught him. “Aside from the chicken,” he added. The aroma of roast chicken made his mouth water.

“Barley and honey roast pumpkin salad. Should we spike the Butterbeer?” Potter asked as he poured the Butterbeer into the cocktail bowl.

“We’re not in school, why not just serve Firewhiskey?” Draco whined.

“This is for the girls. Hermione doesn’t like Firewhiskey.”

“Then don’t spike it.” Draco rolled his eyes. His door bell rang, and Draco jumped to his feet. “Must be Weasley and Granger.”

Opening the door, he took in the view of Weasley’s old car, Ford something, looking dangerously battered before it vanished as Weasley closed the door. Granger waved a hand before him, snapping his attention to her. “Hello, Granger.”

“Good, I thought you’d never see me,” she said. She sniffed around and frowned. “Did you make the birthday boy cook?”

“He always cooks,” said Draco, stepping aside so Granger and Weasley could come in. “And he’s a man.”

“Boys will always be boys.” Granger huffed, briskly heading in the kitchen’s direction. Weasley made a face, saying, “You’re lucky Harry never has a period.”

“I can hear that Ronald Weasley,” Granger yelled from the kitchen and Draco laughed.

Closing the door, Draco sauntered to the armchair, turning on the telly. Weasley joined in as Draco animatedly pointed out various products in the commercials which he had tried himself, preening every so often as Weasley said, _Wicked_ , and watched in awe. By five o’clock his fireplace flared, as Pansy materialised from it.

“Merlin, Draco, when was the last time you got your Floo cleaned?” She wrinkled her nose in disgust, dusting off her beige, fitted robes.

“One and a half years ago, when I first rented here,” said Draco cheerfully. “I never use it, anyway. Living as a Muggle, remember?”

“But you have a Wizard boyfriend!”

“I can just Apparate after my training,” said Potter leisurely as he Levitated the Butterbeer bowl onto the dining table. “Are Goyle and Astoria coming?”

Pansy sneered. “You invited Daphne’s sister?”

Draco dismissed her. “Astoria owled me, her Mediwitch training will be until late, so she just sent her regards. Goyle’s probably late like usual.” As though hearing him, his fireplace flared once more, revealing a very dusty Goyle.

“Uh. Happy birthday, Potter,” said Goyle with a forced smile that looked a lot like a grimace. Potter choked, but it had Draco clapping with glee.

Not so long after, they all sat at the dining table, with Draco in between Potter and Pansy, while Granger was squeezed across from them in between Weasley and Goyle. Draco flicked his wand to the Muggle radio, and began challenging the others to a game of song guessing.

“It’s—uh—Nelly Furtado?” Weasley asked.

“Jennifer Lopez, ‘Love Don’t Cost a Thing’,” Draco said smugly.

“This one is Christina Aguilera?” Granger wrinkled her forehead so deeply that it convinced Draco that it must have been hard for her to not know anything for once.

“‘Don’t Tell Me’, by Madonna.” Draco preened more.

“How about this one? Mozart?” asked Goyle uneasily.

“No, you imbecile, don’t you know Aerosmith?” Draco feigned horror, as Pansy exclaimed that even she knew Mozart would never sing like this. Well, Mozart just didn’t sing, period.

Potter was laughing so loud Draco was afraid he would lose his voice. But as they finished the dessert—slices of chocolate cake which Potter hid from Draco, lest it would vanish into Draco’s stomach—Draco leaned back onto Potter’s shoulder to relax. He had practically won the game by default, though Granger was looking slightly disgruntled.

Moving into the living room, Draco sat on the armchair facing the telly, with Potter curling on the carpet, his head resting on Draco’s thigh. Granger was sharing the sofa with Weasley, and Pansy was taking the other armchair beside Draco’s. Goyle had to drag a chair from the kitchen to sit. They each held a glass of Butterbeer, though Potter had added a bit of Firewhiskey for Draco, Goyle, Weasley and himself.

Granger was advancing her career in the Ministry in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, so she began to describe all the new laws and what effects they would have, but Weasley and Potter quickly diverted the topic to Weasley Wizard Wheezes’ newest product and Girl Weasley’s latest adventure in Romania. Pansy, as always, hated to be left behind, so she started to gossip about the Patil twins and their affair with the ever surprising Theodore Nott. And Pansy added that she just discovered her new fetish for men who couldn’t really form a proper sentence.

“You know, Potter, sometimes I think you’re very charming,” she said, batting her eyelashes.

“Er,” said Potter.

“That was so sexy, you know,” she said again.

“Um?”

“Say that again?”

“Er. Um?”

“I still remember my promise to haunt you until you can’t get a boyfriend, Pansy,” said Draco, his arms curling protectively around Potter’s neck. “Now, Potter. Be a good boy and sit here.” He hauled Potter until he was squeezed in the tiny space that was left on the armchair. Draco leaned satisfyingly onto Potter’s body heat.

“Possessiveness is plebeian, Draco,” Pansy said with a bored face. Draco waved her off nonchalantly.

“Speaking of fetishes, Hermione likes it when I tie my hair back,” Weasley said complacently, showing off his glaring ginger shoulder-length hair. Granger gasped in dread.

“Ronald Weasley! That’s private!”

“I love elbows. Thin elbows,” Goyle said helpfully, halting Granger’s wrath. Potter snorted amusedly. Draco wondered if Goyle liked thin elbows because he couldn’t see the sharp angled bones in his own elbows.

“Ron has a Mother Complex,” said Potter to Granger’s chagrin. Well, that explained why he was hypnotized by a Know-It-All mother hen like her.

“I wager you two have a last names fetish. Two years but still using last names, that’s hardly normal,” Weasley said, seemingly scared at his own idea.

Potter made a face. “No, that’s only because we’re used to using last names.”

“Potter loves it when I’m being selfish and demanding,” Draco said, kissing Potter lightly on the mouth. Potter grinned into the kiss, and Draco purposefully showed off his tongue lapping on Potter’s upper lip when Weasley threw a cushion at them.

“How about you, then? What’s your fetish?” asked Granger disapprovingly.

“I don’t have one,” said Draco haughtily. But Potter snickered, sitting straight and pointing his forefinger at his own face.

“Malfoy likes glasses. He loves it when I wear them in bed, it can make him lose control.”

Draco tackled him onto the floor, and they were yelling, kicking and wrestling, as Weasley frantically howled that he didn’t need _that_ much information.

It was when Goyle announced that he had to have a second dinner that everyone got the cue to go home. They parted with a promise of having another meet up sometime in the next month, though Pansy and Goyle grimaced slightly at the idea. But all in all, the birthday party was quite a success. It could be worse, really.

After Potter spelled all the plates and cutlery so they could clean themselves, Draco sprawled on the sofa, his head on Potter’s lap. Potter’s fingers carded through Draco’s hair, and sometimes Draco wondered if Pansy ever told him about Draco’s unhealthy fondness for having his hair groomed.

“Mother owled me this morning,” Draco said, closing his eyes to focus on Potter’s gentle caresses. “She doesn’t mention arranged marriages anymore. And Father hasn’t commented on it since New Year.”

“Mm, is that a good sign?”

“Don’t count on it. Malfoys have a lot of cunning ideas. Better be always prepared,” said Draco, reaching up to hold the back of Potter’s neck and pull him into a kiss. “But I have other news.”

“Yeah?” Potter asked against his lips.

“You remember that I retook my Muggle Studies N.E.W.T. this year? Well, I passed with an O,” Draco said. “Now I really have eight N.E.W.T.s. Though it’s annoying to think that I need one and a half years living in the Muggle world to really pass the test, but at least it’s over. I have the money and the qualifications, and my therapist said I only have to do checkups twice a year, so I think this is the right time to go to school again.”

Potter sat back, raising his eyebrows. “You’re going back to the Wizarding world?”

“Yes, I’ll take a two year course. Then I can search for a job.”

“You’re not teaching French again?”

“No.” Draco pouted. “I quite like my job here, and those children are all right, really. But in the end I’m still a Wizard and I want to go back.”

“Fine,” said Potter, smiling. “You’ll find more challenge in the Wizarding world, though.”

Draco laughed. “After living in the Muggle world—which I knew nothing about—for almost two years, I believe I can do anything now.”

“That’s the spirit.” Potter stroked Draco’s cheekbone affectionately. “What are you studying then?”

“I’ll tell you later.” Draco winked. “More importantly, isn’t it about time you moved out from that creepy place?”

Potter frowned. “Grimmauld Place? Yeah, I’ve been planning to move out. I mean, I’m done tidying up the place of Dark Artefacts and all.”

Sitting up, Draco bumped his shoulder against Potter’s teasingly. “Then let’s search for a new flat in a Wizarding area?”

Potter gaped. “Together?”

“Together. We can search for one that’s not too far from the Ministry because you’ll be an Auror, and not too far from my school as well.”

Potter still gaped. “We’re living together?”

“God, Potter—Harry! Snap out of it!” Laughing, Draco pushed Potter to lie on his back, and began kissing his lips, his nose, his jaw and neck. “Let’s move in together,” he said softly.

Potter didn’t answer, instead he wrapped his arms around Draco, pulling him closer as he kissed Draco’s mouth slowly, deeply, as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right word. Draco relented into the kiss, knowing what it meant, giving Potter what he always begged and pleaded for—understanding.

“I know. You don’t have to say. I know,” he whispered again and again, as Potter seemed unable to stop kissing him. Soon he began stripping Potter of his shirt, savouring the warmth that was radiating under his fingertips. He nipped at Potter’s earlobe and whispered, “Bed.” And that was all it took for Potter to Apparate them to the bedroom.

Later that night, when Potter was snoring softly, his flushed body cocooned under Draco’s blankets, Draco sat in his study. He took the silver frame Astoria gave him, smiling at all the pictures, replaying them again and again until he felt his cheeks hurt. Opening his drawer, he fished out the unfinished letter and a quill, and began writing.

As he wrote, everything began to spin together inside Draco’s head. All the memories he had with Potter from the moment they met, every embarrassing moment since before the war, and the appalling images of their altercations during the war, all leading to the after-events, when Potter stubbornly confronted him.

Then he thought about his hatred that had turned into something that was equally deep, only under a different name.

He was a coward back then, and perhaps he still was, but at least now he was brave enough to think that—maybe, no matter how horrible the things that could happen in his life, there were still other little things that would shine like gems if he just bothered to look. And thinking like that gave him hope, and strength, and courage.

It gave him life.

Scrolling up the letter, he walked towards the cage near the opened window. He tied the scroll to the eagle owl’s leg, and then petted its beak lightly. “To Headmistress McGonagall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, boy,” he said.

It flapped its wide wings, flying through the window and into the dark, starless night. He shut the window, stretching the muscles in his arms and relaxed. Heading back to the bedroom, he yawned contentedly.

Tomorrow would be another busy day.

* * *

_19 Hartfield Road, London_

_31 July, 2001_

_Dear Headmistress Minerva McGonagall,_

_I wish I still had the charmed parchment so I could write to you without sending an owl. I also think that my task to send you bits about my future plans was not finished. So here I am sending you another one, in the hope that this will really be my last and final report as your (ex) student._

_I have re-taken my Muggle Studies N.E.W.T. this year, and I am applying to the Wizarding Academy of Muggle Studies for a two year course. I have been living in the Muggle world for one and a half years, and every day is a new lesson. I want to research further, and find out if the many (surprisingly) useful Muggle goods could be mixed with our magical entities, and if they would create new, more valuable items. I want to know how Wizarding society views Muggles in their advanced studies, and I want to prove and explore it myself._

_In my one and a half years of life as a Muggle, I have taught French to Muggle children. This brings me a new keenness for one of the things I never expected I would ever desire. I want to teach, Professor. I will complete my two year course and get a license to teach. Until then, Professor, please wait for my application with generous patience. I will, in two years time, apply as a Muggle Studies teacher at Hogwarts._

_My position as a former Death Eater turned Muggle Lover might be quite constructive for educational purposes, and perhaps, for our future. I hope the late Professor Charity Burbage would be proud of me, if not forgive me. That, of course, is if you would allow me to teach, Professor. And with my knowledge and finesse, I assure you, I’m confident of getting the position._

_Yours truly,_

_Draco Lucius Malfoy_

* * *Fin* * *

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